Headlights Look Like Diamonds
by compte-tes-doigts
Summary: Stiles Stilinski and Mallory Durant like solving puzzles, which is good since Scott McCall needs help navigating high school around one significant problem: he turns into a werewolf. Trying to pretend they're anywhere near normal isn't easy for these three friends, and it's not exactly a bonus that Mallory's in love with Stiles. Considering she doesn't even know it yet.
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: I do not own Teen Wolf or any of its characters. They belong to MTV and the virtuoso – infuriating as he can be – that is Jeff Davis. I just own my OCs (although you can't really "own" a person, but you get the point.) *Re-edited and quite re-done.*

* * *

**Prologue**

_The child is bad magic._

* * *

Slumped in the large, dark brown leather chair in his dimly lit study, Hektor Kosta pored over the letter in his calloused hands, hoping stupidly that the hastily-scribbled words on the worn page had miraculously changed now that he was rereading them for the twelfth time that night. But the twelfth time would not be the charm, and each inspection of the grim letter made his stomach plummet impossibly further. He felt more alone, more defeated, than he'd ever thought a man could feel. And all because of the five-year-old girl who was sound asleep in her bedroom just one floor below.

Hektor's left leg shook with an overwhelming urgency, and red-colored spots appeared suddenly in front of his eyes, momentarily blinding him. In a fit of rage, he crumpled the letter and hurled it across the room, angry enough not to care that it had landed where anyone who might've walked in could've seen it.

As far as Hektor knew, his wife and two children were blissfully preoccupied by frivolous dreams, unaware of his mounting panic. He envied them their happiness, wanted nothing more than a night of uninterrupted sleep after the last three weeks he'd had filled with persistent nightmares. It wasn't right that his daughter, an annoyingly chatty and foolish child who had been spoiled rotten by her own mother, had taken away his sole respite. It wasn't right.

Hektor had been exhausted for quite some time but never as furious as he was in the moments preceding the worst mistake he would ever make.

He snatched his great-grandfather's brass trench knife out of a hidden compartment in his desk drawer, rationalizing that he needed to punish Mallory for stealing his sanity from him. The brat would grow up thinking she could get away with doing all manner of evil things if he didn't put a stop to her wickedness quickly. Resolved to end the madness, Hektor roughly shoved his fingers through the holes of the knife's knuckle guard and padded down the stairs.

He slipped into Mallory's room, his stare glued to the vaguely child-shaped lump under the green comforter but his mind completely focused on the knife he was clutching behind his back. A sliver of moonlight peeked through the curtains in front of the two ajar windows on either side of Mallory's pirate ship bed, providing a meager amount of light. Hektor was grateful for the darkness, afraid that the sight of his sleeping daughter would dissuade him from meting out his preemptive punishment. Even now, he was unable to see her properly, but he was still beginning to feel the guilt poking at the back of his mind. He ignored it, though, and glided toward Mallory. But then –

"Hektor," a voice murmured from the right-hand corner of the room, and Hektor's heart – if that's what a person would actually call it – nearly leapt out of his chest. "I was wondering when you'd finally come down. I've been waiting a few hours."

Hektor's eyes widened in terror. He was positive he'd been caught, and by his wife, no less. Irritated with himself for having forgotten to check their bedroom first, Hektor bit down on his lip so hard, he drew blood. _Idiot_, he scolded himself mentally.

"Elaine, let me explain – " Hektor requested, frighteningly unruffled considering he had absolutely no explanation at all.

" – Explain what?" Elaine interrupted less calmly, hands planted firmly on her hips. "How you prevented our daughter from going to school this morning, on what was supposed to be her first day of kindergarten in Beacon Hills, all because you're a selfish bastard? Were you really _so_ terrified of her being out in the world?"

Naturally, Hektor was confused, and what followed Elaine's questions were not answers but a pause so pregnant, it might have been in its third trimester.

"She said she stayed home because you were scared of her leaving you. You came in here so you could tell her truth, didn't you?" Elaine asked, the worry almost undetectable in her steady voice.

Hektor remained silent, unsure how to answer.

Elaine sighed. "I don't want to do this in front of her. She wakes at the slightest noise." Hektor assumed Elaine was gesturing toward Mallory, who amazingly seemed not to have woken up in the midst of her mother's rather loud accusation. "We'll discuss this in your study."

Elaine strode out of the room, and Hektor traipsed after her obediently, but not before quietly sliding the trench knife underneath Mallory's dresser. He would come back for it later.

Hektor returned to his study with an icy sensation spreading through his chest. Of course Elaine wouldn't want to shout at him about his attempt to "punish" their daughter right in front of the child. But if he knew Elaine the way he was certain he did, she would scream at him, throw things at him, and maybe even order him to leave under threat of his own death. His heart started beating furiously at the idea. Elaine was a force to be reckoned with.

"Sit," she commanded, perched on the edge of his mahogany desk.

Keeping his gaze fixed to his wife, Hektor slowly sank down onto the leather sofa across from her, wary of her apparent calmness.

Elaine wasn't going to scream or throw things, however. In fact, she had no knowledge of what Hektor had been preparing to do to their daughter three minutes ago.

"I'm only going to ask you this once, understood?" Elaine said sternly, and Hektor hesitantly nodded, the knife under Mallory's dresser flitting through his mind. "I want you to say nothing to Mallory. You've told me why we moved here, but if she knew…She's too…young to understand. We're her parents, and it's our job to protect her for as long as we can. You know that, right?"

Hektor swallowed. Once and then once more when the lump in his throat wouldn't go away. He was half-relieved his wife hadn't figured out his true intentions, but now the prickle of guilt he'd felt before was steadily developing into full-blown regret. Elaine always had this effect on him; she had mastered the ability to manipulate his emotions with just a few, simple words. It was simultaneously mind-boggling and infuriating.

Elaine continued, "You can't go down to her room in the middle of the night and think you're helping anyone by – warning her about something even you haven't grasped the full extent of yet."

"I'm as _up to speed_ as I need to be, Elaine. And I'll tell my daughter any damn thing I please," Hektor immediately hissed, his fists clenched on his lap. He had no plans to do any such thing, but Elaine was insulting his intelligence, and that simply couldn't stand. "As a matter of fact, I'm so up to speed, I haven't had a wink of sleep in weeks. Were you aware of that?"

Elaine lifted an eyebrow challengingly. "You don't want to test me, Hektor. I know you too well."

Fuming, Hektor murmured menacingly, "You know _exactly_ what I permit you to know. Nothing more, nothing less. You'd do well to remember that."

For a moment, Elaine looked like she'd been slapped, her eyes taking on a sort of fearful sadness. But the expression vanished before Hektor could be sure it had been there at all, and Elaine stormed out of the room, fiercely muttering to herself.

Thoroughly livid, she dashed into Mallory's room and roused the slumbering girl, declaring firmly, "Your father and I have talked it over, and you're going to school tomorrow."

Her word was final.

* * *

Mallory loved her new school. She loved chattering with the other kids while they colored together. She loved her teacher, Miss Rosiello, who read stories to her students whenever they asked politely. She loved swinging on the swing set during recess. But most of all, she loved Show-and-Tell.

She never brought anything in. The one time she snuck into her dad's study to find something, he yelled at her until she cried and then stomped around the attic for an hour, looking for a suitable hiding place his daughter wouldn't be able to crawl or climb into. (And he never apologized to her for his viciousness.)

No, Mallory loved Show-and-Tell for another reason.

"Miss Rosiello, can I go now?" a boy asked one Friday, about two months into the school year. He bounced up and down in his seat, eager to present his object to the class. "I've got something _really_ awesome!"

"Of course, dear," she encouraged, absolutely positive that what he had would be interesting. "Go right ahead."

The young child didn't disappoint. He swung a pair of handcuffs around his skinny index finger and wiggled his eyebrows for dramatic effect. He got carried away, however, and they were hurled across the room a few seconds later. "Sorry. Sorry!" he cried, giving his classmates a sheepish grin.

He retrieved them from where they'd landed under a table in the back of the classroom but bumped his head against it as he was trying to stand up. All of the children laughed except for Mallory, who glared at them with as much contempt as a five-year-old could actually muster. They always found an excuse to ridicule this boy.

"Oh honey, are you alright?" Miss Rosiello asked concernedly, checking his scalp for a bump.

The boy nodded, splotches of pink covering his normally pale cheeks. He looked down at the handcuffs, willing his embarrassment to disappear. He'd only wanted to show the class something cool. "I don't think I wanna go anymore," he mumbled.

"I wish you would," Miss Rosiello urged. When he wouldn't look up, she backed off. "But you don't have to if you don't want to."

"No, wait!" Mallory interjected, studying the boy and his handcuffs with acute interest. "I wanna see those!"

Once one of the other girls' giggles had subsided, she called out, "Yeah, me too!"

"Show them! Show them!" a boy in the front row chimed in.

Emboldened by their persistence, the lively child stood up straight, strutted to the front of the classroom, and started babbling away. "My dad said he's a deputy at the Beacon Hills Police Department and that he stops bad guys from getting away with these. They're called, 'Han Coughs'," he mispronounced, and Miss Rosiello had to contain her mirth. Oblivious to this, he continued, "His job is really cool and he gets to drive around in a car with a siren that he lets me play with sometimes. I wanna be just like him when I grow up!"

Mallory listened avidly as he spoke. Most of the kids were disappointed that Miss Rosiello wouldn't let them wear the handcuffs when the young boy passed them around, but she asked him anyway, "Can I put those on?"

He nodded vigorously, producing a key from the pocket of his small khakis and unlocking the cuffs. Mallory peered over his shoulder to make sure Miss Rosiello was occupied with the other kids before putting the handcuffs on and clicking them shut. She didn't tighten them but rather tugged her hands apart to test their capacity to restrain and snickered when they slipped off her petite wrists. The boy moved to catch them, but they clattered to the floor. He sniggered this time, thoroughly at ease with the girl who seemed to be more fascinated by the handcuffs than he was.

"These are _so_ cool! But – doesn't your daddy need them?" Mallory wondered what he was using in their place.

"They have extras at the station." Then the boy whispered conspiratorially, "My mom bugged him for a whole hour just so I could have them for Show-and-Tell. She can make my dad do _anything, _even let me eat curly fries for breakfast on Saturdays!"

"Wow. Your mom's awesome, Stiles!" she praised with a bright smile, and the boy named "Stiles" grinned back.

"Yeah, she – You know my name?" he interrupted himself to ask incredulously. He hadn't spoken to Mallory before; he'd wanted to on numerous occasions because she seemed so nice, but he'd never quite plucked up the courage.

"Yeah, silly. I've only heard it, like, a bazillion times," she laughed. "It's an awesome name! I wish 'Stiles' was _my_ name!"

"Nuh-uh. 'Mallory' is so pretty," he complimented, making her redden ever so slightly. "Besides, 'Stiles' isn't even my real name."

This piqued Mallory's interest. "Oh yeah? What is?"

Stiles averted his eyes and scratched the back of his neck. "You'll make fun."

"No, I won't," she promised sincerely.

"Everybody else did. On the first day of school," he admitted, thinking about the agonizing ten minutes he'd spent listening to the other kids mocking him. Mallory was already friendlier than he predicted she'd be, but he was fairly confident his real name would be a deal breaker. If she'd be his friend, Stiles was perfectly willing to go his whole life without telling her.

"Everyone else is a butthead, then."

"It – it's hard to say it right," he stalled, even though she seemed genuine enough.

"I can do it!" she assured him, and he hesitated for a moment, but ultimately shook his head. "Why don't we trade? If you tell me your name…" She paused, tapping her chin and thinking of what would make the deal fair. "I know! If you tell me your name, I'll _lick_ anybody that ever makes fun of you again."

"You'd really _do_ that?" His eyes twinkled hopefully. It almost sounded like she didn't care about getting in trouble with the teacher, as long as it meant someone was standing up for him.

"Sure! I'd do it anyway, since they're mean to you all the time. But I think a trade's better." She nudged him playfully, and Stiles simply couldn't resist. He leaned over and whispered it in her ear, causing her to blurt out, "Whoa! That's the best name ever!" followed by "Oops! Don't worry, I won't say it."

They pinky swore to make the deal official and then spent the afternoon playing and chatting. They swung on the swing set during recess, talking more about Stiles's dad and then about his mom, a pediatric surgeon at Beacon Hills Hospital ("a doctor who puts kids' insides back together" were his exact words, though). He told Mallory about Claudia's warm hugs and how her floral perfume was his favorite smell in the whole world and that she never discouraged his sadness by saying things like, "Boys don't cry." They discussed their favorite colors (his was blue and hers was green), their mutual love of puzzles and curly fries, and how the Kostas had only moved to Beacon Hills a little over three weeks ago.

"Oh! So that's why you weren't here before," Stiles remarked. "Where'd you come from?"

"A place called 'Cuneticut'. We had to leave 'cause of my dad's job. He's a teacher like Miss Rosiello," Mallory answered boastfully.

"Does he teach here?" Stiles asked, twisting his swing around as if he'd find Mr. Kosta somewhere on the playground.

"Nuh-uh, I wish. He's at the big kids' school down the street," she stated, referring to Beacon Hills High School. Beaming proudly, she started raving about her father. "He's the smartest guy ever! And it's nice 'cause he's always here to pick me up on time. You can meet him today if you wanna. You'll like him. He says everyone's name right on the first try!"

Stiles wondered briefly if he was imagining her, but then her soft laughter rang through the air, giving him the loveliest goosebumps. And later, when Mallory licked three other kids, she got in trouble with Miss Rosiello and had to sit quietly in a corner during snack time. That was definitely real.

Stiles couldn't believe his luck: everybody liked what he'd presented for Show-and-Tell that day, and the girl he'd been too shy to talk to until just a few hours ago was surely now his _friend_.

When the school day was over, they waited dutifully for Hektor, both of them keen on Stiles meeting him. He had to be great if he was her dad.

But forty-five minutes passed and he still hadn't arrived. He hadn't called ahead to let Miss Rosiello know he'd be late, either, so Mallory began making excuses, trying to hide her unease. "He's probably helping one of his kids and just…forgot."

"Yeah, sure," Stiles agreed half-heartedly, unable to picture anyone forgetting Mallory, let alone her own father.

Miss Rosiello called the high school asking for Mr. Kosta, but the principal's secretary told her that he never came back from lunch. It was 4:15.

Stiles waited patiently the whole time, but it made him sad how unmistakably worried Mallory was, staring at the ground and gnawing away at her upper lip. He rested his hand on her forearm the way he'd seen his mom do with his dad when he was upset and delicately mentioned his house being a few blocks from the school. Ten minutes later, she took him up on the offer to have his mom pick them up, when it became clear Hektor truly wasn't coming. She left Beacon Hills Primary School with a frown that Stiles found himself very annoyed with her father for.

How he felt about Hektor Kosta didn't matter, though. Stiles wasn't going to meet him, and Mallory wasn't going to see him again. Not for a very long time.


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

_I went out into the night,  
__I went out to find some light.  
__Kids are dyin' out in the snow,  
__Look at them go, look at them go!_

"Stiles Stilinski, quit eyeing my cookies!" Mallory Durant scolded the boy in question, who was in fact blatantly staring at her delicious, double-chocolate chip cookies.

"Wh – I am a growing boy, Mal!" Stiles said defensively. At Mal's indifferent expression, he added, "Aww c'mon. Just one bite?"

"_One_ bite," she conceded after a moment, holding a cookie out to Stiles. But rather than taking the promised "one bite", he proceeded to suck it out of her hand like a vacuum. She sighed, unsurprised. Stiles was always hungry; even when he lost his appetite, he'd find it again a few minutes later. "How have _none _of your other vital organs fallen through the massive hole in your stomach yet?"

"Hey! You know I'm watching Dad's cholesterol. I've been trying not to eat junk food around him," Stiles explained.

"Haven't you guys been on that health kick for months?" Mal had heard about it extensively from the Sheriff, who was still pretty grouchy about the whole thing ("I have no veto power in my own house!")

"Yeah, but I caught him sneaking a bag of potato chips into his room last week. I had to vacate the premises of all fried, salty, and sugary things."

"Ahh, that explains the Ho Hos and five bags of Lays under my bed." Mal already figured it was her strange friend's doing but didn't consider it necessary to ask why, given that she'd known Stiles since kindergarten.

"Oh yeah, remind me to – "

Stiles was cut off by his dad's cell phone ringing from the living room. He and Mal shared a brief look of excitement before they leapt off the kitchen counter and raced toward the phone, clearly hoping for a crime they could somehow witness in the generally sleepy town of Beacon Hills. The Sheriff, however, reached his phone right as Stiles was about to pick it up off the coffee table and slapped his snooping son's hand away before he could answer.

"Again, kid?" the Sheriff asked, annoyed with but mostly tired of Stiles's consistent intrusiveness. He answered the phone, but at his son's carefully calculated, innocent look, nodded at Mal and ordered, "Take her home. It's almost 11, and tomorrow's your first day back at school."

Mal pulled a reluctant Stiles out of the living room, closing the door behind her.

"Alright, I'll drive you," he said dejectedly, but she was on the ground with an ear pressed to the crack under the door. They shared a devious glance before he, too, got down on the carpet.

* * *

Scott McCall didn't play baseball. In fact, no one in the McCall household did. But a baseball bat was the closest thing to the sixteen-year-old boy when he heard a suspicious creaking noise outside, and it was that baseball bat he took out onto the porch to investigate with.

Moving as quietly and cautiously as he could, Scott searched the darkness around him, firmly gripping his wooden baseball bat and poised to strike any potential "predators." As he scanned his front yard, a person fell from the porch roof, upside down and hanging by his legs. Thoroughly alarmed, Scott yelled and swung his bat, about to strike flesh and bone when he recognized the boy in front of him, who also happened to be yelling and defending himself – by flailing his arms. From somewhere above the dangling boy, Scott could hear a panicked and more feminine voice hollering, "I'm losing you, I'm losing you!"

"Stiles, what the hell are you doing?!" Scott cried, angry now that he knew the cause of the ruckus was his arguably deranged best friend.

"You weren't answering your phone!" Stiles justified in a high-pitched tone, still dangling from the porch roof. "Why do you have a bat?"

Inspecting his choice of weapon, Scott shouted, "I thought you were a predator!"

"A pre – I – wha – " Stiles scoffed, and Scott could hear snickering from above him. "I know it's – "

"Mal, is that you?" he interrupted, already sure of the answer.

"Hey, Scott. I'd ask how it's hanging, but it really feels like that should've been _your_ first question. You missed a perfect opportunity, dude," Mal called down to him. "Anyway, what's up?"

He wasn't amused. "Wh – you, clearly! What are you doing up there? Or better yet, what are you two doing _here_?"

"Well, _someone_ had to hold down this idiot's legs and make sure he didn't crack his skull open."

"Look, we know it's late, but you gotta hear this. We saw my dad leave twenty minutes ago. Dispatch called, they're bringing in every officer from the Beacon department and even state police," Stiles elaborated, ignoring the "idiot" remark.

"For what?" Scott asked, calmer now.

"Two joggers found a body in the woods," Mal answered.

Scott watched as Stiles tapped her hands so she could let him jump down. "A dead body?"

"No, a body of water. Yes, dumbass, a dead body," Stiles replied sarcastically, popping up from the ground.

He took a few steps back and held out his arms to catch Mal, who didn't take his help and landed rather ungracefully on the lawn between the two boys. She let out a soft "Oof", and Stiles laughed quite openly, enjoying her failed stunt. Glowering at him, she took his offered hand, and he pulled her to her feet, brushing grass off the back of her jacket and then swinging himself over the fence and onto the porch.

"You mean like murdered?" Scott asked, growing more intrigued by the minute.

"Nobody knows yet," Mal responded.

"Just that it was a girl, probably in her twenties," Stiles finished, disturbingly smug that he knew this.

"Hold on, if they found the body, then what are they looking for?"

"That's the best part: they only found half!" Looking eagerly between Scott and Mal, who winked back, Stiles declared, "We're going."

Fifteen minutes later, Stiles pulled his Jeep up to the entrance of the Beacon Hills preserve, plainly ignoring the "NO ENTRY AFTER DARK" sign that cautioned against the ominous woods.

"We're seriously doing this?" Scott questioned for maybe the seventh time.

"You're the one always bitching that nothing ever happens in this town," Stiles reasoned as Mal hopped down from the backseat and rolled her eyes. She patted Scott on the back reassuringly before catching up to Stiles, who held the flashlight ahead of them.

"I was trying to get a good night's sleep before practice tomorrow."

"Right. Because sitting on the bench is such a grueling effort," Stiles quipped, walking briskly through the trees with Mal.

Scott jogged to keep up. "No, because I'm playing this year. In fact, I'm making first line," he proclaimed.

"Hey! That's the spirit. Everyone should have a dream, even a pathetically unrealistic one," Stiles mocked.

Mal shoved him, and he scowled over his shoulder at her after momentarily losing balance. "Don't be a dick. Scott's been practicing all break. Right, bud?"

"Thank you! Yeah, I have," he confirmed, straightening his back with pride.

"Although I did kick your ass last week. Three times…and I don't play lacrosse," she whispered to Scott before getting shoved herself. Grinning, she ruffled his hair affectionately.

"Just out of curiosity, which half of the body are we looking for?" Scott asked.

Stiles paused for a beat, laughing lightly, "Huh, we didn't even think about that."

"And, uh, what if whoever killed the body is still out here?" Scott seemed to be more amused than troubled.

"Also something we didn't think about."

"Jeez, stop asking so many questions. Just go with it, man," Mal urged, casually applying her chapstick as if the three of them were simply hanging out and not attempting to track down half of a dead body. Although these two things didn't seem to be mutually exclusive with this group of friends.

"I really think you two finding each other was the universe's worst idea," Scott teased, as the three friends made their way up a steep ridge. He panted, "It's – comforting to know you guys have planned this out with your usual attention to detail."

"I know," Stiles replied as Mal said, "We try."

"Maybe the severe asthmatic should be the one holding the flashlight, huh?" Scott pulled out his inhaler and shook it. Mal glanced back at him out of concern, but he waved her off.

Spotting multiple flashlights and police dogs, the three teenagers dove to the ground and hid until Stiles became too impatient to stay there any longer.

"Wait, come on!" he beckoned to his friends.

Mal overtook him quickly.

"Guys!" Scott shook his inhaler again and took a hit, before taking off after them. "Wait up! Stiles! Mal!"

The three friends were separated from each other within seconds.

Mal searched frantically for any sign of her companions and thankfully, was soon alerted to the bark of a K-9. A ways behind, Stiles fell over himself and to the wet ground, startled by the police dog.

"Hold it right there!" a deputy shouted at Stiles, apparently looking for his gun.

"Wait, don't shoot!" Mal shrieked, assuming a protective stance in front of Stiles with her hands held out in submission. He reached for the belt of her trench coat but missed, unsuccessful in his efforts to prevent her from acting stupid.

"Hang on, hang on!" came the gruff voice of the Sheriff. "These little delinquents belong to me – Jesus, Mal, put your hands down. No one's _shooting_ anyone."

She dropped her hands but winced; they were done for.

"Dad, how are you doing?" Stiles greeted as nonchalantly as possible, while Mal helped him up by his elbow and brushed the wet leaves off of his hoodie.

"So…do you, uh, listen in to all of my phone calls?" the Sheriff countered in a somewhat defeated tone, squinting between the two teens.

"No!" Stiles swore, but confessed a second later, "Not the boring ones."

"Nice," Mal muttered, glaring at him but then deciding it would be best for her to take the blame now. The Sheriff would go easier on her, and she knew she should be held accountable anyway. "This one's actually my fault. We were listening at the door, I egged him on. Sorry, Sheriff."

He nodded, pretending to understand. "Right, because this miscreant _needs_ egging on. You two practically feed off of each other's penchant for troublemaking," he remarked with narrowed, knowing eyes. "Now, where's your other partner in crime?" he asked.

Mal feigned innocence. "Who, Scott?"

"Scott's home. He said he wanted to get a good night's sleep for the first day back at school tomorrow," Stiles cut in, still out of breath but not missing a beat. Mal would've high-fived him for his quick thinking if the Sheriff weren't there, but her pride dissolved at his next words. "It's just Mal and me. In the woods. Alone."

Mal's eye twitched, but thankfully, the Sheriff didn't notice. He was too busy suspiciously scrutinizing Stiles. Unconvinced, he quirked a single eyebrow and held it there until Stiles shrank under his piercing gaze.

The Sheriff must've picked up on the shifty look in Stiles's eyes when he lied. _Just Mal and me. Alone._ That had to be it. Mal knew that it was basically in the Sheriff's job description to be suspicious of everyone, and it was Stiles, so that called for double the skepticism, but she couldn't help thinking that the Sheriff's questioning expression held something almost...personal. She wondered for a moment if he'd heard something romantic in what Stiles had said, but she immediately felt crazy for even considering this.

To back her friend up, she nodded her head, albeit with an awkward and nervous smile on her face. "Y'know, one last hurrah before school starts again," she said, pumping her fist in the air pathetically. It was only half-untrue, but she still hated lying to Stiles's dad.

"Scott, you out there? Scott?" The Sheriff checked the trees with his flashlight to no avail.

Mal took in as much as of her surrounding as she could without tipping him off. The woods were infinitely less menacing with him around, but her anxiety was growing by the second. Where was Scott? Was he out of the preserve yet? Was the killer in the woods with all of them? This wasn't how their night was supposed to go, but Mal knew she couldn't search for him then, so she resigned to coming back later.

"Well, young man – and young lady – I'm gonna walk you both back to the Jeep," the Sheriff said, clasping the back of his son's neck and Mal's upper arm, escorting them out of the preserve. "Stiles, you're gonna take Mal home, drive straight back to _our _house, and then you and I are gonna have a conversation about something called 'invasion of privacy' – And 'putting your friends in harm's way', if the mood should strike me. Which it probably will. Mal, I really don't wanna worry your mom, so we can keep it between us this time. But you could've gotten hurt, okay?"

She nodded earnestly and Stiles stared remorsefully at his Converse. His dad never said it out loud, he would never deliberately upset Mal that way, but they all knew. If she got hurt, seriously hurt, it would destroy her mother.

"I know. But hey, not a scratch on me, right? And besides, I can take care of myself. If you wanna worry about someone, worry about Stiles. Kid's kind of shrimpy, breakable even." Trying to lighten the mood, Mal gently pinched Stiles's arm – which was actually quite solid – but caught a glimpse of his downcast eyes and shut her mouth, assuming she'd offended him.

The Sheriff chuckled, and when they reached the Jeep, he sent her into the car with a hug. "I wish your obviously bad influence on each other made me dislike you, Mal."

"No you don't, Sheriff," she laughed as she buckled herself into the passenger seat. "I'll see you around."

"Under more pleasant circumstances, I hope?"

"I wouldn't say tonight wasn't pleasant. Would you, Stiles?" She turned to her friend for affirmation but when none came, shrugged at his father. "Don't worry, I'll make sure he _speeds_ all the way back to my house."

"And then straight to ours, Stiles," the Sheriff reiterated, peering through the passenger side window. Taking no chances, he commanded, "Stay _under_ the limit."

He tapped the Jeep's hood before returning to the dead body search.

Mal twisted in her seat to face Stiles before he could even put his keys in the ignition. "So what's the plan? Do you wanna meet up later? You should probably drop me off at my place first. I have a feeling your dad might call my mom to 'catch up' and ask about me to make sure you actually took me home this time…but if _you_ go home, maybe not because let's be real, where would I go this late without you?" She paused to calculate distances in her head. "Okay, so it takes about ten minutes to drive back to my house and another ten to yours, so you should probably just cruise around until then. And I'll obviously call you when I find Scott – "

"When you find Scott," Stiles echoed hollowly, staring blankly out of the windshield. For once, he was the calmer one.

"Yeah, someone's gotta look for him, and you have to be home in twenty minutes or your dad's liable to cuff you to his desk for the rest of your life," she clarified, failing to detect Stiles's peculiar stillness as she searched for her phone in the glove compartment.

Stiles spun around to glare at her, his voice becoming slightly shrill. "Did you hear a word he said? Did you hear a word the_ Sheriff_ said?"

"Of course I did, but since when have _you_ listened to anything your dad says?" she retorted, pointing out his typical disregard for rules. Gesturing between the two of them wildly, she added, "We got Scott into this mess, remember? I have to find him."

"You don't have to do anything except let me take you back to your house and go to sleep," Stiles debated hotly, gesturing just as wildly as Mal.

"Stiles – "

" – Don't 'Stiles' me. You heard my dad. You could've gotten hurt, Mallory. That would've been on me, and it'll be my fault and mine alone if you get killed because I let you out of this car!" he argued, the volume of his voice rising with every sentence.

Mal didn't like how her full name sounded coming from Stiles, especially given their current situation. She sat back for a moment, frowning, but when Stiles locked their doors and started the car, it was mild horror that filled her.

"Wait! We can't leave him. Whoever or whatever killed that girl could still be out there. He's alone, and no one knows he's here except us. We have to find him! You can't just drive away! Stop!" she begged him, terrified at the realization that no one knew precisely where Scott was, not even her and Stiles. She placed her hands on the gearstick to prevent Stiles from pulling out of the preserve, desperate for him to listen.

He paused, groaning impatiently. "Do you know where he is? His _exact_ location? Because if you do, tell me, and I'll come with you. I don't care if my dad throws me in one of those holding cells at the station for it. I will come with you. Problem is: Scott could be anywhere by now."

"No, he's – he has to be around here somewhere. He can't have gotten that far! I – I have my phone. I can call him," Mal tried, but she knew as well as Stiles did that Scott didn't have service out in the woods. It was a miracle she had three bars herself.

Before Stiles could point out these obvious facts, she pressed '3' on her speed dial, praying Scott would pick up. His cell went straight to voicemail, so she left one and tried again. And again. And again. And again.

Nothing.

"What if you wait here for a few minutes and I try to find him as fast as I can? I'll call you every twenty seconds," Mal implored, grasping at straws but willing to do whatever she had to, all-too-aware that if something bad happened to Scott, it would be her fault.

"You'll get yourself killed, and what good would that do anybody? You're not even sure he's here – _don't_ try to deny it. I have to take you home. My dad was right, I put you in danger, and I should've known better." As he reversed the Jeep and headed to Mal's house, he attempted to comfort her. "Come on, keep calling him. He'll pick up eventually."

"Not if whoever cut that girl in half decides one person isn't enough!" Mal snapped.

"Mal, he will be fine. The killer probably isn't even there anymore. How stupid would that be?" Stiles laughed dismissively, as if the very idea was too idiotic to be worth considering.

"About as stupid as three adrenaline junkie teenagers scouring a forest for half of a dead body? Oh, wait!" she cackled – actually cackled – sounding moderately hysterical. She hated herself for having supported this particular escapade only an hour ago.

"We aren't adrenaline junkies," Stiles scoffed, rolling his eyes at Mal's over exaggeration. But she was making the sound of a cat being strangled, so he said quickly, "But that – that is not the point here."

"Oh god! What if the killer wasn't even human? It'd still be in the woods. With Scott. More than likely hunting him down, waiting to feast on sixteen-year-old-boy flesh!" Mal was spiraling into insanity now, thinking up the goriest scenarios. Images of her friend clawing at a tree flashed through her mind, blood dripping out of Scott's every orifice while a large, savage creature lurked in the background, baring five-inch-long fangs.

"Okay, Mal. Stop that! You're freaking yourself out for no reason. The body was cut in half, not torn into shreds," Stiles rationalized. "And if it _is_ missing flesh, that's just 'cause some maggots got hungry. The killer has to be human, and only a moron would stick around the place he dumped a body…or half a dead body, in this case."

His logic wasn't anywhere near airtight – who knew what an animal was capable of? – and he was being sort of gross, but it halted Mal's black thoughts, allowing her to reclaim her sanity. He was certainly right about one thing: going back for their best friend now could get her killed.

She called Scott another three times. His cell went straight to voicemail again, but she'd sufficiently calmed down by this point. She told him to call her back or just shoot her a quick text the_ instant_ he got her messages and resolved to wait for him to do so. The remainder of the car ride was silent, apart from the restless tapping of Mal's feet against the floor.

When Stiles reached her house, he stalled the engine, not wanting to draw the attention of Mal's mom. "She awake?"

"Doubt it, I told her I'd be out late with you, so…" Her voice trailed off, hundreds of thoughts cluttering up her head.

"Seriously, Mal. He'll be fine. He'll call when he hears how freaked out you've been. He'll sleep in his bed tonight and ride his bike to school tomorrow and – "

" – And make first line at lacrosse practice," she finished distractedly.

"Exactly!" Stiles exclaimed, glad Mal was at least playing along. But then he realized what he'd agreed with her about. "Uh, well…"

She smiled. "He'll be sitting on the bench with you?"

"There you go!" Stiles approved. "So I'll pick you up tomorrow – or later, I guess?" He checked the time on his dashboard. It was after midnight. "Yeah, just later."

"Sure. _Call_ if you hear from him," Mal requested as she got out of the Jeep and walked around the hood, slinging her backpack over her shoulder.

"'Course," he vowed with a salute. "Try to get some sleep, Mal."

"_Try _being the operative word." Stiles gazed at her with his lips pressed together, contemplating the strong urge to get out of his car and give her a hug. He was gripping the door handle when she reminded him, "Your dad's probably waiting for you. With a couple of choice expletives, I'm sure."

"Spectacular." Stiles grimaced, slumping back in his seat. "Just so you're aware, his twenty plus years with the Beacon Hills PD have probably taught him a variety of foolproof methods for murdering a person and getting totally away with it. Keep that in mind if I'm not back here at 7:15?"

"You got it," Mal snorted, sauntering backward up her walkway. For a much-needed laugh, she added, "Hey, did you know it's called 'filicide' when it's your kid? _There's_ a fun fact for ya."

"That is the _opposite_ of a fun fact!" he grumbled, only half-alarmed by her comment. "I'm leaving all my stuff to you. Take good care of my drums!"

And with that, Stiles drove off, spying Mal's relaxed grin in his side-view mirror.

_Good,_ he thought contentedly.

* * *

Mal locked the mahogany panel door behind her as quietly as she could and then scowled when it gave its customary click, a deafening sound in the otherwise silent foyer.

The Durant entryway was welcoming. The walls were a cozy maroon. A dark walnut-stained wooden staircase with an iron banister stood to the right but curved slightly to the left as it rose. A coat rack was nailed to the left-hand wall a few feet into the house, under which was a jumble of boots, heels, and sneakers. Slightly further down hung an antique, framed, gold mirror above a sapphire blue dresser. Car keys and house keys sat in a bowl atop the dresser, next to a stack of _Los Angeles Times_ newspapers and _Time _magazines. A bronze chandelier hung from the ceiling, currently unlit.

Mal hung her raincoat and dark purple beanie on the rack, stepped out of her Doc Martens, and deposited them by the rest of the shoes, noticing a pair of Timberlands among them. _So Theo's back_.

She snuck up the stairs to the second door on the left. Mal's bedroom was nestled cozily in the left wing of second floor rooms and connected to her bathroom from the inside as well as the outside, the first door at the top of the stairs. It was a good set-up, appropriately private for an adolescent girl.

Across the hall, the door to her brother's room was open (as it always was when he came home). Mal knew he was asleep by the sound of his signature soft wheezing. She wanted to check in on him and see how four months of grad school had taken its toll on her older brother, but like her, he was a light sleeper, so she let him be.

Mal tossed her backpack on her bed, a four-poster with emerald, velvet curtains that she'd coordinated with the color of her bedroom walls. The bed was situated between two windows overlooking the backyard, and in front of those windows sat two cherry wood bedside tables. A matching dresser stood in the corner on the left side of the room, next to her bathroom door. The wall surrounding the desk and closet on the right side was plastered with band, movie, and TV show posters; and photos of Mal, Theo, and her mom in equal proportion to ones of her, Scott, and Stiles. The only framed photo on her desk was one Scott had taken the previous summer; Mal was giving Stiles a piggyback ride, and he was smiling toothily, holding two thumbs up to the camera over her shoulders.

Mal shimmied out of her skinny jeans – the chaos of that night making her deeply regret the decision to wear them – and put on a pair of flannel pajamas before brushing her teeth and crawling under her duvet. She stared at the ceiling hard, willing Scott to call. Minutes felt like hours just lying there, so she got out of bed to pace around her room. She tried busying herself with picking clothes for the next day but finished the task in less than a minute, too distracted to really care.

Just as she was about to call Stiles and ask if he'd heard from Scott, Mal's phone vibrated on her desk, and she couldn't have been more relieved to see the name on her caller ID.

"Where the hell have you been?!" she whisper-yelled into the transmitter.

"_Where do you think?_" Scott asked tiredly. There was a distinct _flump _on his end, and Mal guessed that he'd just flopped down onto his bed.

"Right. Well, where are you now? Are you home? Are you all right?!" Mal fired question after question, clutching her cell with both hands and pressing it firmly to her ear, hoping desperately that Scott's answers would all be good.

"_Yes,_ _Mal,_" he mumbled, his tone like that of a schoolboy being punished. He almost called her 'mother', holding back from doing so because he knew Mal was just worried about him."_I'm in my room and I'm all right._"

"Scott, I am so _so_ sorry. We shouldn't have deserted you like that," she apologized frantically, pacing around her room again.

He brushed it aside. "_It's fine. Don't worry about it._"

"I _am _going to worry about it. Tell me what happened!"

"_Can we talk at school?_" he asked wearily, his eyelids beginning to flutter shut. "_I'm really tired._"

"Uh, yeah, of course. Get some rest," she said, wondering why he was being evasive but filing her questions away for later. "I'm really sorry I left you behind."

"_It's okay. I'd have gotten in a shitload of trouble with my mom if you hadn't._"

"Kinda seems like your life is more important, though."

"_I'm totally – I swear to you I'm okay, so you can stop all the pacing I know you're doing right now._"

Mal uttered a noise of protest but finally stood still.

"_Besides, your twelve phone calls and three hysterical voicemails pretty much make up for it – _"

"They weren't _all _hysterical – "

" – _and I'm home now_."

Mal acknowledged the statement with a sigh. "Which is what matters, I know…but you can expect profuse apologies and sucking up for the next week. From me _and _Stiles," she promised. "Have you called him yet?"

"_Just did. He wasn't, uh, overly concerned,_" Scott replied tentatively, but Mal could hear the hint of a smile in his voice and instinctively knew that he wasn't even remotely upset.

"Ass," she cursed through a chuckle.

"_Yeah. He was more worried about you, yelled at me for not calling you first._"

"Jesus."

Scott snorted and then said through a yawn, "_It's way later than I wanted to be awake, so I'm gonna go. We'll talk at school._"

Mal glanced at her alarm clock. 12:57 AM. "Fair enough. G'night, bud."

After hanging up, she slipped back into bed, expecting sleep to come swiftly. Only, she just couldn't stop thinking. About her best friends, about the night's events before and after the Sheriff found her and Stiles in the woods, and about what Scott wouldn't say on the phone. Most of her thoughts dissipated eventually, but weirdly, the one question that continued to plague her concerned the dead girl.

Had she finally found relief?

Mal fiercely hoped the answer was yes. For some reason, it was like she needed it to be.


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

_Let's stick together  
__Let's follow our hearts  
__Not even lions, can tear us apart_

At 6:15 that same morning, Mal mercilessly splashed freezing water on her face to wake herself up before brushing her teeth and showering. Toweling off, she grimaced at the haphazardly thrown together outfit she'd picked the night before – _Sweatpants and a peplum top, yikes, _she thought – and tossed it back in her dresser drawer. Instead, she opted for a short-sleeved, floral print skater dress paired with thigh-high tights, silver feather earrings, a gray scarf and her faux leather biker jacket. Mal combed her hair, tied it into a side ponytail and swiped on some eyeliner and mascara before examining herself in the bathroom mirror.

Satisfied, she packed her backpack, slung it over her shoulder and poked her head into Theo's room to check if he'd woken up. He was still asleep, so she stuck a note to his door saying she was sorry she'd missed him the night before and to text her if he wanted to "grab coffee or ice cream or whatever you want, on me, because I know that you have maybe 50¢ to your name".

Dressed to the nines in a fitted suit and black pumps, Elaine Durant was humming "Girl" by Beck and stirring cinnamon sugar oatmeal on the stove when Mal walked downstairs.

"So it was you who stole my Beck CD. J'accuse!" she exclaimed with playful reproach.

Mal's mom turned around and winked at her daughter, an impish grin on her face. "Can't steal what your own money bought, babe!" she replied in her faint, French accent, one that Mal would definitely have picked up had they ever gone back to Lyon, her mother's hometown.

"Touché," Mal surrendered, lacking a comeback. She'd only gotten a summer job at Macy's that June, so she hadn't been making any money a year ago, when she'd wanted to buy her – and now obviously her mom's – favorite Beck album.

"When did you get back last night? I didn't hear you come in," Elaine asked, affecting a more parental tone of voice.

"Twelve-thirty, but don't worry. I was safe with Stiles the whole time," Mal answered honestly. It was a good thing her mom had no reason to question her about Scott, because "safe the whole time" was more than she could say for _him._

"Safe with _Stiles_? Stilinski?" Elaine asked doubtfully, if somewhat astutely. "The boy who managed to get your dress caught in a lawnmower when you were nine?"

"Hey, that – that was an accident! And we _both_ wanted to ride the thing," Mal defended staunchly. She and Stiles had acted on the brilliant idea to go for a spin on the Sheriff's lawnmower when they were younger, and while they were fighting for control over the appliance, it nearly sliced her leg off, tearing her favorite purple polka-dot dress in the process. Still, the impulse had been shared. "Besides, I only needed two stitches."

"Mhmm, and you were only crying for an hour," Elaine retorted, glancing at Mal teasingly and licking oatmeal off of her finger.

"You're thinking of Stiles," Mal corrected with a reminiscent smile.

He hadn't wanted to leave Mal in the hospital room by herself, so he'd gone in with her to keep her company while they waited for her mom. He hadn't expected to be the one needing someone to hold his hand while the doctor stitched her up, but he'd freaked out the appropriate amount for a nine-year-old boy whose best friend might have become an amputee thanks to a machine that was only meant to cut grass.

"Oh lord, that's right. The Boy Wonder. God love him!" Elaine laughed fondly, rubbing her chin in thought. "He's picking you up today, right? 'Cause I have to be at the office soon."

Mal nodded, sliding her backpack off of her shoulders and noticing the briefcase on the island counter. "Why's McGimme calling you in now?"

Elaine rolled her eyes at the infantile – but fitting – nickname for her boss. "He needs me to help draft a severance agreement." The blank look on Mal's face prompted her to continue, "For Beacon County Advanced Research Supplies? They have to lay off about a hundred people in a month." Mal still showed no sign of recollection. "Do you just completely zone out when I talk about work?" her mom teased.

She was a junior partner at Noble &amp; McGivney LLP, a corporate law firm for Beacon County, and often had to work outrageously long hours. Seven AM wasn't at all the earliest they had called her in, and she was frequently gone for two or three days at a stretch. Which is why Mal – and secretly, most of Elaine's associates once they'd heard the nickname – called her boss "McGimme".

"Of course I do. Corporate law isn't exactly the nail-biting stuff you get in _Law and Order_, Mom," Mal stated bluntly, smirking.

"Maybe not, but without it, you'd be wearing a burlap sack instead of that dress," Elaine wisecracked, matching her daughter's expression effortlessly. "So, I really wouldn't start running my mouth, if I were you."

Mal grinned before remembering to ask, "Oh hey, when did Theo get here? I didn't know he was coming home for break."

"What?! Your brother's here?" Elaine asked incredulously. She darted out of the kitchen as quickly as her heels would allow but paused to gaze up the stairs, as if that would answer her question.

Mal followed her, snickering. It was common knowledge that Elaine Durant was aware of maybe fifteen percent of the things that went on with her own son. "Yeah, his door was open when I got back."

"God! That boy never _tells_ me anything," she whined, resolving to call later just to scold him. Returning to the oatmeal, she poured a bowl for Mal and herself, and they ate in silence. After a few minutes, she inquired, "Are you excited for school? You look lovely, by the way."

"Thanks," Mal beamed at the compliment. "You know, despite the four hours of sleep I had last night, I actually am."

Her mom pulled a face quite uncharacteristic for someone who was supposed to be a serious lawyer. "Are we sure you're my kid? Because I hated school when I was sixteen. Your grandmother had to pay me fifty bucks just to wake up on the first day of my junior year…Why don't I have to bribe you to go back?"

"Uh…well…" Mal floundered, picking at the tassels of her scarf nervously. "I – I'm taking AP Psych this semester." Her mom's jovial expression immediately vanished, and Mal's heart plummeted to her stomach. "But I told you about this over vacation, remember? It's – you said it was fine," she reminded her hastily, stumbling over her words a little and crossing her fingers that her mom wouldn't revoke the permission she'd so tiredly and absentmindedly granted.

Mal had made the request in the lowest vocal register she could reach while her mom was falling asleep on the couch one evening after thirty-four consecutive hours of work. She believed she'd timed it perfectly, but it was now appearing to have been a stupid plan.

Elaine didn't yell but rather snatched Mal's unfinished oatmeal and poured it down the garbage disposal before scrubbing their dishes viciously, her body distinctly bent over the sink – away from her daughter. "You know, I can't say that rings a bell, but it's fine. I'm only your mother. You should just do whatever pleases _you_," she replied brusquely, tossing the bowls into the dishwasher and snatching her briefcase off the counter.

As her mom stalked out to the garage, Mal sighed heavily. "Why do I ever open my mouth?"

* * *

Stiles honked his horn outside Mal's house at 6:58, apparently anxious to get to school. He was never late when it concerned his best friend – previous experience had made sure of that – but he was never _this_ early, either. Especially on the first day of school, which he had so lovingly labeled, "the foulest kind of sadism known to man".

Naturally, Mal was apprehensive.

"Umm, not that I'm not glad to see you in one piece, after what I'm sure was your dad's new record for Longest Lecture Given at 100 Decibels, but what are you doing here so early?" she questioned suspiciously.

"Get in! I'll explain on the way," he insisted, leaning over the passenger seat and flinging the door open.

Mal climbed into the Jeep and tossed Stiles an apple, taking a bite of her own. He sped to the high school with one hand on the wheel but chewed his apple at a glacial pace. This further agitated Mal because: a) by now she was used to him scarfing everything down like it was the last thing he'd ever eat and b) something was clearly wrong.

"So… what did your dad say?" she used as a starting point.

The Sheriff had already tried threatening, bribery, and extortion on his son, but not one of those tactics had ever worked. What else was there?

Stiles shrugged, more or less indifferent to his father's exasperation at this point. "Eh, mostly the usual. 'If you don't shape up, kid, I'll ground you until you forget what the sky looks like,' and, 'I'll extend your curfew by a full hour if you just stay put at Mal's house and watch Star Wars or do something equally legal and normal with her.'"

The Sheriff had evidently run out of strategies.

Mal shook her head smilingly. Stiles had quite the talent for mimicking his father. "He's recycling. So, that covers threats and bribes. Blackmail?"

"He swore up and down that he'd tell you and Scott about when I air-guitared to 'You're Gonna Go Far, Kid' so hard, I wrenched my neck and couldn't look anywhere but straight up for two days. Which was absolutely pointless considering Scott was lip-syncing and you were air-drumming the whole time," he chuckled, tearing his eyes away from the road to flash Mal a wicked smirk.

She sucked air through her teeth in teasing disappointment. "The man really should've known that. Some Sheriff."

"Yeah. So now I'm on dish duty for the rest of the week." Stiles fought to suppress his devilish grin but failed, and Mal knew why.

"You poor thing," she deadpanned. "It's not like Reagan was president the last time someone used your kitchen or anything."

The Stilinski men had cooked maybe twice during the time Mal had known them, and "cooked" was kind of an overstatement since both meals had been prepared according to her mom's stringent instructions. They typically relied on microwaveable mac n' cheese and Elaine's cooking. So, it was safe to assume that Stiles probably hadn't washed a dish in years.

"I know. It's gonna be tough, but hey, what I did deserves _serious_ punishment." Stiles bit his lip, feeling very smug, but didn't say anything after that. He peeked at Mal out of the corner of his eye, attempting to gauge her potential reaction to what he really wanted to tell her, what he'd been withholding for several hours. After a significant silence, he unpromisingly began, "I gotta tell you something, but you can't get mad, okay?"

"Oh boy. What did you do?" Mal demanded, half-nervous. Stiles did a lot of stupid things, but she was usually right there by his side to make sure he didn't hurt himself or break any serious laws – when she wasn't cheering him on, that is. For him to be hiding something from her meant that what he'd done was _bad_. Even by their standards.

"Okay, look, it's not that we _did_ anything, per se," Stiles promptly established, restlessly twisting his hands around the steering wheel. "We just, you know, didn't say anything to you. For your own good – "

" – _We_? Who's _we_?"

"Me and Scott."

"You and Scott," Mal repeated dully, narrowing her eyes.

"You were, like, scary-hysterical when I had to take you home – I'm talking severely unhinged – so we just didn't think it was worth you freaking out all night long. He's totally fine, hand to God!" Stiles vowed, talking a mile a minute and holding his palm up for effect.

"Stiles, what the hell happened?"

"Scott said he was bitten," he blurted, grimacing at how loud the statement had come out and clearing his throat before continuing. "When he called me last night, he told me he tried to leave the woods after my dad found us and then – and then he got bitten."

"Bitten? What does _that_ mean? Bitten by what?" she pressed, more confused than aggravated.

"See, I don't actually know. I didn't let him give me that many details. I wanted him to call you since you were so...tense – " he justified before Mal interrupted him.

" – but you told him to leave out essentially the most important part of what happened? You didn't even think to ask what he was bitten by?"

Stiles exhaled ruefully. "Well, no – But he's fine! He said he was okay, right?"

"I sorta think 'bitten by who the hell knows what' qualifies as a lot less than okay!" Mal exclaimed, dragging her hand down her face in annoyance. "Oh god, this is our fault, _my _fault! I shouldn't have let you take us dead body hunting. I shouldn't have encouraged listening in on your dad's phone call!" she moaned, a second surge of guilt hitting her like a brick wall.

"Yeah, okay, this is why we didn't wanna tell you. You're buggin' out way more than the situation calls for!" Stiles cried, his arms thrashing about until the Jeep veered suddenly to the left. He swiftly righted the car, muttering curse words under his breath as he did so. Without daring so much as a glance at Mal, he said, "Look, it's done, all right? There's nothing we can do about it now. I'm sorry we kept you in the dark, but Scott'll explain everything when we get to school. Which is why we're so early, by the way."

Luckily for Stiles, Mal lived within a driving distance short enough from Beacon Hills High School that he only had to withstand her glower for a few minutes. He parked the Jeep and cut the engine, studying his unhappy friend for a second. She ignored his scrutiny and stared at her boots irately. But being friends with Stiles, it was kind of impossible to stay mad at him. When he had trouble yanking his backpack out of the backseat and then tumbled comically out of the Jeep, Mal was forced to conceal her smile behind the sleeve of her jacket.

"D'ya think Scott has rabies? Or maybe tetanus? Because the irony of that would be _mag_nificent," Stiles joked rather merrily, hoping to alleviate any tension while they hurried toward the front of the school to meet Scott. "Y'know, since he…works with animals…on the regular," he awkwardly finished. But this time, he caught Mal's reluctant grin. "Ha! So you're not pissed! You can't be pissed if you're laughing at my bad jokes."

"I'm not laughing, I'm grinning," Mal argued with a roll of her eyes, but Stiles didn't care. Instead, he wrapped his arm around her shoulder and squeezed her against him, making it difficult for either of them to walk properly.

"Oh yeah, 'cause there's such a colossal difference," Stiles remarked sarcastically. He added with a self-satisfied expression, "Just admit it, Mal. You can't stay pissed at me. It's perfectly normal. I mean, hello? It's me."

Mal's irritation quickly dissolved. "Fine, Fat Head, I'm not pissed," she relented, elbowing him lightly while he scoffed at her unconvincing insult. Though he barely felt it, he grunted and released her to rub his ribcage theatrically. "You just – don't hide stuff from me. I hate being out of the loop. 'Secrets, secrets are no fun,' and all that."

Stiles nodded energetically. "Henceforth, you will be in the know. No secrets. Complete honesty. Total candor. Absolute – "

Mal held a hand up and said, "I get it."

"Oh hey, there he is."

Stiles nodded toward Scott, who was unfastening his helmet by the bike rack as a silver Porsche pulled into the parking spot next to him. Jackson Whittemore, resident asshole, bumped the back of Scott's legs as he opened his car door and then dared to get up in his face about it. That's what it looked like from where Stiles and Mal were standing on the front walkway, anyhow.

"He's being a total dick right now, I just know it," she seethed, her fists clenched.

"I hate him. Class hasn't even started yet, and I wanna punch him in the face. God!" Stiles groaned, as Jackson swaggered off.

"You always wanna punch him in the face," Mal pointed out. She'd never seen her friend wearing anything remotely resembling a smile around Jackson Whittemore. In fact, Stiles was usually muttering curse words under his breath whenever he was within fifty feet of the guy. (Not that Mal didn't regularly pray Jackson step on a Lego every twenty minutes for the rest of his life.)

"So do you!" Stiles argued. "He so much as breathes, and you're one step away from Hulking out."

Scott walked up to the bickering pair before Mal could respond. "Hey guys," he greeted them cheerfully.

Mal wasn't mad at Stiles anymore, but Scott had also kept his bite a secret, so she crossed her arms and scowled fiercely. "What the hell, dude?"

"What?" he asked innocently, slightly taken aback by this total opposite of the "profuse apologies" he'd been expecting.

"You were bitten last night and then, oh I dunno, neglected to tell your best girl friend about it."

"You couldn't have waited for me? Thanks, man," Scott huffed to Stiles, who shrugged shamelessly. He turned to Mal and assured her, "It's really not that bad. I told you last night I was fine, and I am." At her 'Are you serious?' expression, he amended, "For the most part."

"Okay, let's see this thing," Stiles pushed, bouncing on the balls of his feet impatiently. Scott lifted his shirt a few inches to reveal the wound still bleeding through his makeshift bandage. "Ooh!" Stiles chirped, utterly fascinated.

Mal wasn't as thrilled. "Jesus Christ! That's what you call 'fine'?"

"Yeah. It looks way worse than it really is," Scott lied, jerking back with a "Whoa!" when Stiles's fingers grazed the gauze and tape.

"You were saying?" Mal questioned defiantly.

"It was too dark to see much, but I'm pretty sure it was a wolf," Scott claimed, ignoring Mal and releasing the corner of his shirt.

"A wolf bit you?" Stiles asked disbelievingly, laughing as the three friends made their way to the school building.

"Uh-huh."

"No, not a chance," he contested.

"I heard a wolf howling."

"No, you didn't," Stiles repeated as Mal added, "Not possible."

Scott scoffed. "What do you mean, no, I didn't? How do either of you know what I heard?"

"Because California doesn't have wolves," Mal explained while Stiles guffawed.

"Not in like 60 years," he concluded decisively.

"Really?"

"Yes, really. There are no wolves in California." Stiles rolled his eyes when Mal was looking.

Scott shook his head with uncertainty. "Alright, well if you don't believe me about the wolf, then you guys are definitely not gonna believe me 'bout when I tell you I found the body."

Stiles's face lit up. "You – are you kidding me?"

"Alone? Jeez, that must've been terrifying." Mal shuddered but refrained from interrogating him in the excessively mom-like fashion she was sure he was already used to from Ms. McCall.

"I know," Scott grumbled, "I'm gonna have nightmares for a month."

"Oh, god, that is freakin' awesome!" Stiles was entirely too happy about this.

"Your horror fetish concerns me, Stiles," Mal half-joked, but he wasn't listening. In fact, he wasn't even looking at her.

"I mean, this is seriously gonna be the best thing that's happened to this town since – since the birth of Lydia Martin," he improvised in what he thought was a very smooth manner, eyes locked on the approaching strawberry blonde. "Hey, Lydia! You look…like you're gonna ignore me…" he trailed off, unnoticed by the beautiful girl who had walked straight past him. Without a word. For the zillionth time. (Mal had kept count.)

Scott leaned around him to watch Lydia's retreating figure, amused. Mal crossed her arms and frowned, offended on her best friend's behalf, although she couldn't say Lydia had surprised her.

"Scott, you're the cause of this, you know," Stiles accused after stomping his foot childishly.

"Uh-huh," the scapegoat played along, winking at his friends.

"Draggin' me down to your nerd depths. I'm a nerd by association. I've been scarlet-nerded by you," Stiles decided dramatically. "At least Mal's _sort of_ normal."

Mal snorted in ardent dispute. "Maybe it's the blazer. Huh, Stiles? A little extravagant for the first day of school, isn't it?" she teased, tugging at his lapel.

Stiles immediately launched into self-defense mode. "Hey! I happen to like this blazer. It makes me look debonair, and honestly, how unfair is it that girls are the only ones allowed to dress up for school without getting shit for it? I'm starting a revolution, Mal. I'm a trailblazer – pun intended – and – and you're screwing with me," he interrupted himself when he realized Mal was just kidding. Honestly, she liked his avant-garde sense of style, and she admired him for dressing to his own taste rather than to impress the girl he had such a crippling crush on.

"Besides, Lydia probably didn't even see it," Scott commented realistically, clamping his lips together when it eventually registered with him how bad that had sounded.

"Yeah, you're right," Mal agreed as they climbed the high school's front steps, thumping Stiles's back hearteningly. With conviction, she said, "It's her incurably dreadful personality that's the problem."

* * *

Once homeroom was over and Mal had her semester schedule, she stopped by her locker to drop off the AP Psychology textbook she wouldn't need until after lunch.

She sighed, contemplating what to do about her mom. Ultimately, Mal shot her a text-turned-rant that read: _I'm sorry for this morning. I'll withdraw from the class if you really don't want me to take it. I can just take American History next year._ _Even though you know my stance on history classes is, "What's the point?" I mean, we all get the gist of it. And anyway, why is it so crucial that the American education system impose upon us that we stole someone else's land but not even mention how horrible it was for those people once we did? I've always thought history textbook authors were unreliable narrators._

Mal detested high school history, but more accurately, she sucked at it. She had the toughest time keeping all the dates, people, and places organized in her head, and it was all so _boring._ Stiles had offered to tutor her during their World History class freshman year, but she would've felt weird accepting his help. (_Separation of church and state_, she'd reasoned.) Part of why she'd chosen AP Psych was that it could replace 11th grade U.S. History. Now, she'd only have to deal with Economics 101 and AP Government, both of which she would figure out how to handle.

While the teacher had his back to the students, Mal slinked into her first period English class – another subject she only _just_ scraped through with passing grades. She slid into the chair of a desk next to Scott and in front of Stiles, which he'd reserved for her with his bag.

"What'd I miss?" she whispered to him.

"Nothing life-altering," he quipped dryly, thumbing through his copy of Franz Kafka's, "The Metamorphosis", inattentively.

"As you all know, there indeed was a body found in the woods last night," Mr. Curtis addressed his students. Scott smirked knowingly at his best friends, and Stiles winked back. "And I am sure your eager little minds are coming up with various macabre scenarios as to what happened. But I am here to tell you that the police have a suspect in custody." Mal arched an eyebrow at this. Both she and Scott turned to Stiles, but he didn't know who it was either. "Which means you can give your undivided attention to the syllabus which is on your desk outlining this semester."

Mal exhaled heavily and flipped through the packet on her desk. _Six essays, fantastic,_ she thought bitterly.

As she was skimming the paragraph on class conduct and inwardly plotting various ways to burn down the school before the fire department could get there, the door opened and Vice Principal Hawkins walked through, a tall girl trailing after him and hiding her face behind a curtain of curly, dark brown hair.

"Class, this is our new student, Allison Argent," he introduced. "Please do your best to make her feel welcome."

The girl tugged at her sleeve timidly and shuffled to the back of the class, taking the only seat left, the one behind Scott.

Mal did her best not to stare at Allison, opposed to rendering her any more uncomfortable than she must have been already.

Scott, on the other hand, made no effort to exhibit the same restraint because not five seconds after Allison sat down, he swiveled around to hand her a pen. His _only _pen. The new girl furrowed her eyebrows for a split second but accepted it with a charming and appreciative, "Thanks."

Mal tapped Stiles's desk and tilted her head toward the brief but endearing exchange. "I might call _that _life-altering."

The corner of his mouth lifted noticeably.

"We'll begin with Kafka's 'Metamorphosis', on page 133," Mr. Curtis instructed, and so the semester began.

* * *

The remainder of Scott's school day passed without incident. The rest of Mal's, on the other hand, didn't. She told Scott and Stiles about her first AP Psych class during last period gym while they were waiting to be separated into teams for basketball. It felt strange being back in her father's old classroom, especially considering that the last time she'd been there, he'd drawn an iceberg on the blackboard and attempted to explain Freud's structural model of the psyche – something, of course, that hadn't made any sense to the five-year-old girl Mal had been at the time. The only thing she didn't tell them, couldn't tell them, was that her heart still ached, being in the same exact room her father used to teach in. She hated that it reminded her of everything she would never have.

When the last bell rang, Stiles dashed to his locker for his lacrosse gear while Scott and Mal ambled through the hallway.

"So…Allison Argent, huh?" she prompted, her grin stretching foolishly wide when Scott stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jeans and gazed intently at the ground. _Busted_, she thought. "She's a total babe, don't ya think?" she pestered, nudging him suggestively.

Scott shrugged at the lock on his locker, refusing to indulge his decidedly horrible best friend.

With perfect timing, Allison strolled up to her locker across the hall. Scott watched with puppy-dog eyes, and as she closed the door, she made eye contact with him and smiled crookedly, her own brown eyes twinkling. Mal purposely examined her nails so as not to intrude on the moment.

Lydia Martin, however, had a different idea. She strode down the hallway toward Allison confidently and struck up a conversation without any invite. Mal scowled, and to make matters worse, "Jackhole" Whittemore had suddenly appeared, seemingly out of thin air. He sidled up to Lydia, snaking an arm around his girlfriend's waist, and planted a kiss on her lips. Not three feet from the pronouncedly discomfited new girl.

And now also in front of Stiles and their other good friend Rebecca "Harley" Harlowe, who'd found Mal regarding the amorous couple with distaste.

Slightly frustrated, Harley marveled aloud, "Can someone tell me how New Girl is here all of five minutes and she's already hanging out with Lydia's clique?"

"Dunno, but she looks severely uncomfortable. Or maybe I'm just projecting my general hatred of them onto her. Any chance she's realized how insufferable Jackson and Lydia are yet?" Mal spoke wistfully.

Stiles ignored her. "It's because she's hot," he asserted as if this were a sufficient answer.

"He means beautiful people herd together," Mal elaborated when Harley hitched an eyebrow.

"Which kinda makes me wonder what _you're _doing here with us," Stiles remarked half-jokingly, bumping Mal's shoulder with his but also curious as to why she hadn't yet joined the rest of the people he considered "too frustratingly pretty to be legal in even the most left-wing states". (And yes, Jackson unfortunately fell into this category with his prominent jawline and cut-glass cheekbones. Not that Stiles would ever publicly acknowledge this.) He knew Mal wasn't the type of person who obsessed over outer appearances, and his assessment of her looks was purely objective, but she had to be at least _somewhat_ aware of her charm, right?

Mal pretended to gag. "Have you _met_ me? Lydia and Jackson are my least favorite people in the _world_. I'd even venture to say the worst people that have ever lived, period. As in, lower on the shit list than Bin Laden and Voldemort."

Stiles rolled his eyes at the extreme exaggeration, but Harley snickered. "And by the way, 'beautiful' means a lot more than red hair and green eyes," she tacked on.

Mal beamed reverently, grateful that Harley understood what was more important here.

"It's strawberry blonde! And I know there's more to her than that!" Stiles cried stubbornly, appearing extremely offended by the insinuation that all that mattered to him was how physically attractive Lydia was.

Harley shook her head in astonishment but had to rush off to catch her bus, so she told Mal she'd swing by her house sometime that week and bid the others goodbye.

Mal crossed her arms and leaned against the lockers. "Eleven years, and I still don't understand you, man."

"Okay, fine. So she doesn't appear to be interested now," Stiles acknowledged grudgingly, mirroring Mal's stance. "But ye of little faith, give me one year. Give me one year! She'll be smitten, I guarantee it."

"That's a distinct possibility should she unstick her head from up her ass. But don't hold your breath."

Mal glanced back at the subject of their discussion; Lydia was leading Allison away from her locker, most likely toward the first lacrosse practice of the season. Mal thought it could easily have been her imagination running away from her, but the brunette seemed anything but keen on watching lacrosse.

When Allison finally receded from view, Scott snapped out of his trance and regarded his friends with a start. "Oh hey, guys!"

"Welcome back to planet Earth!" Stiles announced, slugging Scott in the arm. "How was heaven, buddy? God as nice a dude as everyone says?"

"Shut up," Scott mumbled with a tiny smile.

With a trace of a smirk, Stiles turned to Mal. "You coming to practice?"

"Can't, I'm meeting up with Theo right now."

He'd texted her around lunchtime, _4 o'clock, burgers on you. And get your facts straight, wiseass. I also happen to own of__ a relatively decent pair of Levi's._

"He's back? For how long?" Scott asked.

"I'm assuming a couple of weeks. His vacation ends on the 24th."

"Lucky bastard," Stiles complained, dragging his feet. "We'll see you after, then? We have to find Scott's inhaler," he reminded her.

"Mhmm, text me when practice is over!" she called, running toward her brother's dark blue Honda Civic upon spotting it in the parking lot. Spinning back to her friends, she yelled out, "Oh, and Scott. Don't overthink it. You're gonna rock those try-outs!"

* * *

Virtually destitute of the basic essentials of human subsistence – clothing, food, and sleep – Theodore Durant appeared to have barely survived his first semester of grad school. An aspiring writer attending NYU's Graduate School of Arts and Science, he was trying to get his master's degree in Comparative Literature but quickly burning out.

"I hate it, Mal. I have two four-hour classes three times a week and one of those days is a Saturday. The professors always assign at least two-hundred pages of reading every night, and I haven't gotten drunk in over four months," Theo groused after he and Mal found a cozy booth in the back of Toby's Diner. He let his head fall to the table in exaggerated misery, and Mal stifled a giggle.

"Ah yes, a decade in Theo years."

Theo disregarded the jab and peered up at her with a pair of the most expressive eyes Mal had ever encountered. "But…I love New York, and the lady has a death grip on my soul."

Mal took a bite of her veggie burger and chuckled at his dilemma. "That doesn't sound like a very healthy relationship. The two of you oughta break up. Beacon Hills is very single, I hear."

Theo smiled broadly. "Ah, I knew I missed you for a reason."

"What are you doing here, anyway? Besides putting an end to the missing me thing," Mal asked playfully, taking a sip of her Coke. "Drama queens such as yourself belong in New York full-time."

"Nuh-uh, your turn first. I don't know a damn thing about what's going on in your life. How are you?" Theo inquired, dodging his sister's question for the moment.

"I'm fine, but if you only came back to see me – "

" – Oh no, I didn't. Let's be real, you're not cool enough for me to stick around for two whole weeks." Mal stuck her tongue out at him and he winked. "Actually, an old...friend of mine from high school just got back to town – and I hate that I can actually call him 'old friend' because that technically makes _me_ old. But I figured we could hang out while we're both here."

"Who is this?"

"I doubt you'd remember him," Theo stated vaguely, feeling moderately self-conscious. With a meaningful look, he said, "And anyway, you're supposed to be catching me up on what's been happening with you."

"There's really not much to report," she insisted.

"Not much to report?" he repeated. "I have to disagree. What about that AP Psych class you're taking? That's a pretty big deal for our family, don't ya think?"

"How did you – " Mal began before realizing sourly, "Mom."

Theo popped a fry into his mouth. "Don't get pissed. I had to drag it out of her when she called today. After ten solid minutes of her yelling at me, if that makes you feel better."

"I asked her over break, and she seemed okay with it then," Mal sighed wearily. "It's a good class, I don't want to drop it."

"I think you just caught her off-guard this morning. She'll deal," he assured her. Due to the seven years Theo had on his younger sister, he understood their temperamental mother a lot more. "But that's enough of the unpleasant stuff. What shenanigans have you and your trollish friends gotten into?" he asked, affectionately implying Scott and Stiles. "Spray-painted anyone's pets lately?" he laughed.

In the 5th grade, Stiles and Mal had painted Theo's new gerbil gold while Scott had stood guard. She'd renamed him, "M.C. Hamster", but her brother hadn't found it the least bit funny back then.

"No, but we did search the woods for a dead body last night."

Mal informed him of the previous night's events while he laughed, thoroughly engrossed.

"…and then he called and said he was fine, but I guess he walked all the way home 'cause Stiles and I were waiting for about an hour." For some reason, the idea of telling him about Scott's bite made Mal fidgety, so she ended the story there.

"You freaks never cease to amaze me," he half-insulted, an admiring expression on his face. "Hey, is Stiles still into that girl? The one who thinks he's a leper?"

"She'd have to admit he exists to think he's a leper," Mal corrected with a scoff. "But yes, sadly."

"Sadly?" Theo asked with the tiniest hint of something akin to hope.

"Yeah. She's shallow and mean and has a major superiority complex. I'm not saying she has to sleep with him or anything, just because he likes her and is a more-than-decent guy. If she didn't end up feeling the same, he would recover. The problem is her nose is so up in the air, it's practically glued to the ceiling. And in the rare moments it isn't, she's looking right through him. Stiles is wonderful, he deserves to be happy," Mal vented to her brother, who struggled to keep the smile off his face. "He deserves to fall in love with someone smart enough to love him back." She paused meditatively. "I wish he would, anyway."

"So do I," Theo agreed, staring quite pointedly at Mal.

She didn't catch on.

* * *

When Theo dropped his sister off at the entrance to the preserve, he saw Stiles drumming his hands on the Jeep's steering wheel and bobbing his head jauntily to a song Mal had turned him on to a few days ago. Scott sat beside him in the passenger seat and stared dazedly out of the windshield, unmistakably daydreaming and not listening to the music.

"Wow, they haven't changed at all," Theo observed, grinning.

Mal snorted and exited the Honda quietly, sneaking up to the driver's side window of the Jeep and knocking sharply on the glass. Scott flinched, but Stiles jumped about a foot in the air, bashing his head against the car roof. Mal winced empathetically but she couldn't help sniggering.

Stiles rolled down the window angrily when he realized who it was. "What the hell, _Mallory_?" he hissed her full name, massaging his scalp.

"_Aah girl, what are you thinking?_" she sang in perfect response as the song finished. While Scott chuckled at the lyric's appropriateness, Mal shrugged. "Sorry, Stiles, it had to be done."

Theo watched the interaction with mild amusement. "Hey, Trolls!" he greeted happily. Scott and Stiles waved back. "Listen, I'd love to stick around, but I think Mal's already one Durant too many." Stiles grunted in tacit agreement. "You weirdos have fun!"

Theo saluted his sister and her friends and backed his car out of the preserve.

"So, how was lacrosse?" Mal asked, leaves crunching underfoot as the trio started their trek through the woods. Scott furrowed his eyebrows, so she assumed it hadn't gone well. "It's okay, buddy. You have a whole season to – "

"That's not it, Mal," Stiles cut her off, oddly pleased.

"But – he looks confused…More so than typical," she noted.

Stiles gave her an account of their lacrosse practice's extraordinary events, how Scott had caught every single ball – even when the undeniably skilled and dexterous Jackson Whittemore tried to thwart him – only missing the first one because he hadn't been paying attention. "Scott was on fire, Mal! You should've seen it. Coach was totally speechless. It was freakin' incredible!"

"Really? How'd that happen?" Mal was skeptical. She'd seen him improve marginally over vacation but not enough to merit a speechless Coach Finstock, which was a remarkable feat on its own.

"Yeah, dude. I mean it was awesome, but what _was _that?" Stiles asked as they splashed through a large puddle in the mud. (Mal was glad she'd chosen to wear tall boots that day.)

"I don't – I don't know what it was. It was like I had all the time in the world to catch the ball," Scott tried to explain, pivoting to face his best friends. "And that's not the only weird thing. I – I can – hear stuff I shouldn't be able to hear. Smell things," he said worriedly.

"Smell things?" Stiles questioned with a fair dose of doubt. "Like what?"

Scott sniffed the air. "Like the mint mojito gum in your pocket and Mal's olive oil and lemon chapstick."

Mal was thrown for a second, before remembering that Scott had already seen her put her chapstick on a million times. "But you already know I wear that stuff."

"I can still _smell_ it," Scott insisted.

"And I don't have any mint mojito – " Stiles started to deny, but then he pulled out the very piece of gum Scott was speaking about. Mildly bemused, he stuffed it back in his pocket. "So all this started with a bite?"

Scott had been wondering all afternoon if the alleged wolf's bite had been the cause of everything bizarre that was happening to him now. "What if it's like an infection? Like, my body's flooding with adrenaline before I go into shock or something?"

"Shit, Scott. Maybe you should've had it checked out last night," Mal offered unconstructively. When his face contorted with displeasure, she backtracked. "It's not like you can't anymore. You're not dead yet." But that wasn't really helpful, either.

"You know what? I actually think I've heard of this. It's a specific kind of infection," Stiles began.

Scott jerked back, steadying Mal after she collided with him. "Are you serious?" he asked.

"Yeah. Yeah, I think it's called – lycanthropy," Stiles deadpanned.

Mal pursed her lips but didn't call him out on it, hoping Scott knew Stiles was messing with him.

"What's that? Is that bad?"

_Oh lord_, Mal thought, shaking her head when Scott couldn't see.

"Oh, yeah, it's the worst. But only once a month."

"No, Scott. Lycanthropy is not synonymous with menstruation." Mal stopped his train of thought before it could derail, noticing him glance back at her as if the "once a month" part meant he'd somehow acquired a uterus. "Jesus," she muttered in amazement.

"Once a month?" he reiterated.

Hands on his hips, Stiles maintained his composure, much to Mal's surprise. "Mhmm. On the night of the full moon." Scott pushed him when he howled playfully, so he pointed out, "Hey, you're the one who heard a wolf howling."

"Hey, there could be something seriously wrong with me," Scott justified.

"I know! You're a werewolf," Stiles mocked, growling for effect. "Okay, obviously I'm kidding. But if you see me in shop class trying to melt all the silver I can find, it's 'cause Friday's a full moon."

"Ugh, don't mind him. His point of reference is the horror genre. Why don't you ask your mom? She'd definitely know," Mal proposed.

Scott's mom, Melissa, was the most intelligent and levelheaded nurse she had ever met – and thanks to Stiles, she'd met a lot.

"Are you insane? She'd kill me sooner than heal me," Scott said definitively, making it clear that telling his mom about the night in the woods wasn't an option. He came to a halt where the trees gave way to a small clearing. "No, I – I could have sworn this was it. I saw the body, the deer came running. I dropped my inhaler."

He crouched down on the ground, clearing a pile of leaves to confirm that the device wasn't hidden beneath it.

"Maybe the killer moved the body," Stiles suggested.

"If he did, I hope he left my inhaler. Those things are like 80 bucks," he griped. Thinking the kick Mal gave his shoe was her disapproval of his callousness, he added, "Er, not that it's more important than someone's life."

It was a young man dressed entirely in black and standing only a few meters away that had diverted Mal's attention, however.

Stiles sighted him a couple of seconds after she did and tapped Scott to alert him. The two boys straightened up, while Mal peered closely at the raven-haired man, struggling to pinpoint why she vaguely recognized him.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, clearly feeling encroached upon. No one answered him, so he kept advancing on them.

Stiles repositioned himself to stand in front of Mal, stretching illogically to appear taller than he was and to hide her from view; the guy might've seemed threatening but he hadn't exactly pulled a gun on them.

"Huh?" he continued. "This is private property."

"Uh, sorry, man. We didn't know," Stiles apologized uncomfortably.

"Yeah, we were just looking for something, but – uh, forget it," was Scott's half-assed explanation.

The mysterious man threw Scott his inhaler, who caught it with a wary expression.

Mal tried to sidestep Stiles, but he just shifted with her when she moved, so she went around Scott instead, receiving a dirty look from her protective friends. "Thanks. It won't happen again," she promised the familiar man.

His eyes flashed for an instant, and she wondered if he'd recognized her, too, but he walked away before she could be certain.

"All right, come on, I gotta get to work," Scott announced, completely passing over what had just occurred.

"Dude, that was Derek Hale," Stiles exclaimed, stopping his best friend by putting a hand on his chest. "You remember, right? He's only like a few years older than us."

"Remember what?" Scott asked cluelessly.

Mal suddenly realized how she knew him. "His family. They all burned to death in a fire six years ago," she recalled woefully. "He was in Theo's year in school. They were friends." _And still are, I guess_.

"I wonder what he's doing back."

Stiles shrugged, temporarily setting his interest aside. "Come on," he said, ushering his friends toward the Jeep.

Scott followed him, but Mal lingered there for a while, staring in the direction Derek Hale had gone and puzzling over why someone who'd tragically lost his entire family in one day would want to come back to the place they'd perished.

* * *

**A/N: So I just wanna clarify: I LOVE LYDIA MARTIN. Admittedly, I didn't at first, but her character growth throughout the show is a testament to how awesome she is. Because she doesn't start out as this loveable character (or even likeable, a lot of the time). I hope this explanation isn't necessary but it's here if it is. Anyway, thanks for reading. You're a star and you hold the key to my heart! Review if you wanna, I'd love to know what you think of Mal so far and how she relates to Scott and Stiles. Thanks, lovelies!**


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

_Downhill  
Head on  
This crash is comin' slowly  
Move_

That Friday, Mal had study hall last period and could be found in the library working on a project for AP Psych. It was her first assignment of the year and one she was taking very seriously.

Theo had been wonderfully meddlesome enough to resolve the dispute with their mom after Mal got back from the woods on the first day of school. He'd said it was just a class, and it wasn't worth putting a strain on their family; it didn't have to be a big deal as long as nobody made it one. ("Nobody" essentially meant Elaine, but he'd used the word to be diplomatic.) The ensuing five-minute silence was disconcerting, but with a single nod of her head, the matter was settled. Mal knew it was a huge compromise on her mother's part, and Elaine was still walking around the house like there was a wooden board strapped to her back, so for the rest of the week, she made dinner and washed the dishes and even did her mom's laundry. Everything within the Durant household was back to normal within a couple of days.

A few minutes before the final bell would ring, Mal was sitting at a table in the middle of the high school's library with her open textbook and a slew of index cards, feverishly taking notes that she could write her "Parts of the Brain" sonnet with. She was brainstorming verbs that rhymed with "medulla oblongata" when Allison Argent wandered in, scanning the not-yet-familiar room for something. Her eyes brightened when she spotted the "Literature" sign on the back wall, and she marched toward it with such single-mindedness, she didn't even see Mal sitting right there at the center table.

Mal leaned her chair back after a few minutes, watching Allison peruse the shelves with her thumbnail between her teeth – visibly unable to locate the book she sought. "Want some help?"

Allison turned to her, surprised that somebody was studying in the library so close to the end of a Friday. Considerately, she answered, "Oh no, you're working. I don't wanna bother you," but the wistful look on her face suggested otherwise.

"It's no problem. I have to leave soon anyway," Mal assured her, pushing out her chair and coming to stand by the bookshelf Allison was browsing through. "What're you lookin' for? Kafka?" she presumed, reading the sign labeled "I – L".

"Oh, uh no. I actually have 'Metamorphosis' already. I was hoping there'd be a copy of Keats's collected works." Unsure if Mal knew that she meant the poet, Allison clarified, "His poems, I mean."

"Mhm, English Romanticism. I'm familiar," Mal confirmed with a smile (thanks to her writer-brother), skimming the shelves but ultimately finding nothing.

Discouraged, Allison grumbled, "Shoot, this is the fifth place I've tried."

"Huh, I was sure we had it. Maybe it's in the returns cart…although it's anybody's guess who reads voluntarily in this school – well, other than you – I'm assuming," Mal said speculatively, shaking her head at how idiotic she thought she sounded.

Allison blushed lightly, scratching the back of her head in a manner reminiscent of Stiles. "Yeah, I read for fun. Is that really lame?" she asked self-consciously, pulling the straps of her backpack tightly around her. She seemed almost nervous.

"Lame?" Mal repeated incredulously. "No. No. _Choosing _to be literate is not lame. I'm pretty sure it's the farthest you can conceivably get from lame. You're doing what I don't have the attention span for, so really, I'm the lame one here." She'd read Keats before, but certainly not as in depth as Allison was planning to, and she'd read very little for pleasure apart from that. Other than the standard Harry Potter and Lord of the Rings.

Allison smiled appreciatively, slackening the tense grip on her bag. When they located the book under a copy of "The Merriam-Webster Dictionary", she sighed with contentment. "Thank you so much! I drove around for three hours last night practically hunting this down."

"Wow. That – that is dedication," Mal declared, thoroughly impressed.

"Um, no. _That_'s a veritable neurosis," Allison corrected. Mal snickered, and the witty new girl smirked in satisfaction.

"I get it, though. I did the same thing when my favorite band released an album a couple months ago."

Allison felt more relaxed now. It was comforting to know that people's interests in the town of Beacon Hills weren't limited to lacrosse. "Oh, okay. Good. I'm not a weirdo, then," she laughed, as they waited by the librarian's desk for her book to be checked-out.

"Well, you probably shouldn't use me as a yardstick for normalcy, but I've always thought being a weirdo was way more fun. If that helps," Mal said with an easy grin, "And on that very promising note, I'm Mallory."

"Yeah, you're in my English class," Allison affirmed with a polite nod. As a matter of fact, she had a fair number of classes with Mal, but the two girls had only ever exchanged the typical 'You're familiar, nice to see you again' smiles. Nothing as solid as the conversation they were having now. "I'm Allison."

"Yeah, you're in my English class," Mal mimicked playfully, but she knew quite a bit more about the new girl than she was letting on.

Vividly, Mal recalled the shit-eating grin Scott had walked into school with three days ago. She thought he might've gotten a raise at work but never expected Beacon Hills Animal Clinic to be the place he'd ask out a girl for the first time. Scott had gushed about Allison to Mal, how she'd hit a dog with her car and cried on the clinic's doorstep ("Oh my god, is the dog okay? Is _Allison _okay?"), and _borrowed his shirt_ because hers was soaked through from the rain, and finally about her saying yes to attending Lydia's house party with him that Friday. Stiles had listened attentively at first but tuned Scott out when he described her eyes in excruciating detail for the third time, uncertain as to how exactly a person's eyelashes could be "goddess-like". Mal, however, had soaked in every word, feeling a lightness similar to being in zero gravity. She had never heard Scott talk about a girl like that before, had never known him to have such immediately passionate feelings for anyone.

Chatting with Allison now, she could see why he did; the girl was lovely. She smiled with her teeth and, apart from her initial nervousness, looked Mal in the eye confidently but without a trace of arrogance. Unlike the people she was quickly becoming friends with. The one reservation Mal had about Allison Argent was that almost everywhere she'd seen her at school that week, she was with Lydia and Jackson, usually swarmed by half of the lacrosse team. At lunch or by one of their lockers, she'd be talking to the popular strawberry blonde, who would sometimes toss her hair back and laugh like she was being filmed, which slightly nauseated Mal. But she'd keep an open mind for Scott, and anyway, how bad could Allison be when she had such beautiful taste in poetry?

"Whaddya think of Beacon Hills so far? Don't hold back, I can take it," Mal teased, as Allison took her book from the librarian with a "Thanks".

"It's no _Beverly_ Hills, but – "

" – that breed of human does exist here," Mal finished for her. She noted with a smug smile, "And you appear to have fallen in with them."

The corner of Allison's mouth lifted faintly. "Looks that way. So…what do you think of Lydia and Jackson? Don't hold back, I can take it," she said with a subtly wicked expression.

"Hah, you want me to hold back. Trust me," Mal guaranteed with a scoff.

Allison winced. "Yikes, that bad?"

"You don't wanna get me started. Flailing arms and hissing are involved, and it takes a couple hours for the vein in my forehead to stop pulsating."

Allison gave Mal a look that said, 'I think you might be crazy, but I just met you, and I don't want to be an asshole by saying it to your face.'

"Lydia's been really nice, though, showing me around and introducing me to people. She even bought me a coffee this morning," she defended, hoping that Mal was just exaggerating.

"Did she give you a one-way, non-refundable ticket to her lair in hell with that coffee?" Mal inquired offhandedly.

Allison quirked an eyebrow, curious as to where Mal's substantial animosity toward Lydia had come from. _I've been here less than a week_, she thought, trying to remain objective. (Disliking Jackson, she could wrap her head around. Though she'd never say that out loud.)

"Maybe I dropped it somewhere." She shrugged good-humoredly as she bantered with Mal, who laughed pleasantly.

"I'm only being kind of serious. She seems to have taken to you a lot better than she has to the other 99.9% of the Beacon Hills population." Glancing outside, Mal noticed the throng of excited students that had begun filing out of the school, so she said, "Listen, I gotta go, but it was nice to officially meet you."

Allison checked her phone for the time. "Oh. Yeah, of course. I have to meet up with – "

" – She-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named?"

The new girl snorted. "Oh god, fine."

Mal gathered her things hurriedly, but as she dashed out the door, Allison called her back in. "Hey, wait! I know this is a long shot, but are you going to her party?" Mal offered her a flinty look in response, but she continued anyway, "I'm pretty sure it's open to everyone."

"Yeah, well, I'm one-hundred percent sure that a Lydia Martin-sponsored party would be worse for my physical and mental well-being than snorting crystal meth every day for the rest of my life, so..." Mal commented drolly. Spying the slightly dejected expression Allison was trying to hide, she added, "But I might swing by for a song or two – _Just _to see what the music's like, though."

"Okay!" Allison accepted sweetly. "If I don't see you, have a good weekend. And thanks again for the book!"

"Any time," Mal beamed, glad she'd opted to spend her study hall in the library that day.

* * *

Mal strolled the empty hallway, heading toward Scott's locker to meet up with him before his lacrosse practice. She was eager to witness for herself the highly enhanced athletic skills she'd heard about at great length, but the spectacle that greeted her as she turned the corner soured her mood.

Jackson had his arm at Scott's throat and was aggressively shoving him against his own locker. "What the hell is going on with you, McCall?!" he roared.

"What's going on with me? You really wanna know?!" Scott cried back, frustrated.

Stunned at the outburst from the typically meek boy, Jackson released him and Mal stood frozen a few yards away.

"Well…so would I! Because I can see, hear, and smell things that I shouldn't be able to see, hear and smell. I do things that should be impossible, I'm sleepwalking three miles into the middle of the woods, and I'm pretty much convinced that I'm totally out of my freaking mind!" Scott ranted wildly, breathing laboriously at the end.

"Hey, leave him alone!" Mal shouted, deciding then to intervene. She tried to shove Jackson away from Scott but failed, having underestimated his sturdiness. "What's your problem, Whittemore?" she hissed, his name like ash in her mouth.

Still glaring at the frazzled teammate he'd just attacked, he uttered to Mal in a dangerously low voice, "Walk away, Durant. This is none of your damn business."

"When a pompous asshole harasses my friends, it's _absolutely_ my business," she objected, physically inserting herself between the two boys with her arms folded over her chest and breaking Jackson's hold on Scott in the process. Scott laid a cautioning hand on her upper arm, as if to say, "This is totally unnecessary", but she shrugged it off and scowled at Jackson, the look daring him to fight her. Out of surprise at her protective gesture, Mal guessed, Jackson's eyebrows lifted almost imperceptibly, but his cruel expression returned a second later, so she warningly exclaimed, "Back off!"

"Wow, McCall. Can't even fight your own battles. You have to get your equally pathetic girlfriend to do it for you," Jackson sneered, keeping his eyes on Mal and curling his lip at her. "Whatever, it doesn't matter. I know you're hiding something, and I'm gonna find out what it is. I don't care how long it takes," he threatened, and with one final, hostile glance at Scott and Mal, he strutted away.

Mal gave him the blackest of looks, praying there existed a divine being that would set him on fire right there in the middle of the hallway. But apparently, there didn't, and he passed from their sight, flame-free.

"Oooh, I _hate_ him! I truly and profoundly hate him!" she raged, spinning around to a moderately startled Scott. To be perfectly honest, Mal's overprotective behavior had alarmed him a lot more than Jackson's arm at his neck. Agitated, she asked, "Are you all right? What was that even about?"

He exhaled forcefully and replied, "He thinks I'm on steroids. I'm obviously so bad at lacrosse, drugs are the only way I did that good at the first practice."

She shook her head, too baffled to correct his grammar. "Steroids? That's ridiculous! You're, like, the most upstanding guy I've ever met – possibly that's ever been born," she protested vehemently. Mal wouldn't blink twice if someone showed her an anti-drug PSA starring Scott McCall.

"Apparently not," he said tiredly, unaffected by Jackson's bullying after years of having to deal with it. He'd been a douchebag for as long as Scott had known him. Puberty had made him worse but predictably so.

"God, what a bag of dicks!" Mal fumed, clenching her fists in the direction Jackson had sauntered off.

"Hey, it isn't a big deal. Not like he'll find anything, right?" Scott comforted, his voice gentle. He was mildly irritated himself, but Mal was downright outraged, and he didn't think she had any real cause to be.

She turned to him, affronted by the mere question. "Of course not! But that doesn't give him the right – I mean, Jesus! – The nerve – " she spluttered, too furious to speak properly.

Scott smiled brightly, shaking Mal's shoulder to lighten the mood. "He's always been the stick up his own ass, you know that. Don't let him get to you." Mal thought it strange that she was the one who needed to be talked down. "C'mon, let's go. I'm playing the first elimination today," he announced, brushing aside the unpleasant subject of Jackson Whittemore and ushering his friend to the field.

But as they walked, she thought of something else. "When did you sleepwalk three miles into the middle of the woods?"

"Um, Monday night," he confessed, shrinking back guiltily. The disturbed expression on Mal's face prompted him to add, "Wait, though, it's really not that bad. A lot of people sleepwalk. Stiles used to do it in middle school, right?"

"He – Stiles was – that's different," Mal justified weakly, disinclined to tell Scott the reason behind it; that was Stiles's prerogative. She took a deep breath to relax before attempting to convince him to see a doctor. "Look, Scott. Something…freaky is obviously happening to you because of that bite – which mysteriously vanished in less than twenty-four hours, by the way," she pointed out. Scott had shown her and Stiles his newly unblemished torso after raving about Allison but had again avoided to impart an incredibly significant piece of that night to them. "And I really think you need to get some help now," she pressed.

Scott blew air out of his mouth in denial and dropped his lacrosse bag next to the player's bench, bending down to tie the laces of his cleats. "No, that's exactly why I _don't_ have to," he snapped, getting annoyed. "The bite's gone, and I'm fine. In fact, I'm better than fine. I'm fantastic! So if it's okay with you, Your Highness, I'm gonna –"

"Scott! Mal!" Stiles's piercing voice rang out as he careened around the bleachers, urgency basically scrawled all over his face. "Scott, wait up!"

"Stiles, I'm playing the first elimination, man. Can it wait?" Scott requested, putting his gloves on and eyeing the field distractedly.

"Look – just hold on, okay? I overheard my dad on the phone. The fiber analysis came back from the lab in L.A. They found animal hairs on the body from the woods!" Stiles informed his friends, smacking Scott's shoulders to capture his attention, only to go unheeded.

Scott ran onto the field with an, "I gotta go, guys," and Stiles fell over himself in a frenzied effort to pull him back.

"Wait, no! Scott! You're not gonna believe what the animal was!" he hollered desperately before turning to his other best friend, who was gawking at him like he had fifty heads. "It was a wolf! Mal, there were wolf hairs on the girl's body!"

She exhaled and planted her hands firmly on his shoulders to steady him. "Okay – Stiles? You probably just misheard your dad. Wolves haven't been in Beacon Hills for decades, remember? You said so yourself," she reminded him, using the relatively patronizing tone Stiles hated.

"Well, something changed, then, because my dad definitely said 'wolf'," he swore, holding his ground – but only metaphorically. Mal was the one balancing him in the corporeal sense.

"Look, I'm right there with you about his…recently established weirdness. But _wolf_ hairs? Come on!" she exclaimed, tilting her head skeptically. "Besides, the bite was too large for it to've been a wolf," she reasoned, calling to mind the size of the bandage Scott had fashioned.

Stiles inspected the lacrosse field as if acceptable answers would pop up out of the ground and prove to Mal exactly what she refused to believe. Even at the best of times, it was difficult to convince her of something simply by stating it out loud. She needed proof, not just a cogent argument.

"It just – Okay, we are not done talking about this," he promised, taking off for the middle of the field, where Coach Finstock was almost abusing his whistle to marshal the team into a huddle. Whirling around so he could run backward and then stumbling over his heels, Stiles called out to Mal, "This discussion isn't over!"

Mal rolled her eyes but nodded to humor him before searching the bleachers for Harley, who sometimes liked to keep her company during their friends' practice. (It was the only time they could get new music from each other.) But instead, she identified another friendly face among the amassing crowd. Allison waved at Scott gleefully as Mal threaded her way through the gathering of students.

"You again!" she cried dramatically, plunking herself down on the same bleacher as the other brunette, who smiled brilliantly at her in return.

"Now get out there and show me – what – cha got!" came Coach's booming voice, which was audible even from the stands.

Allison raised an eyebrow and asked, "Is he always so, uh…?"

"Intense?" Mal inferred, her mouth twisting up in a way that suggested to Allison she was trying really hard not to laugh. "Yeah. He's, um, pretty – _passionate_ about lacrosse?" she ventured hesitantly, eliciting a snort from the girl beside her. "No, you know what? Scratch that. He's intense about everything. My guess is that his Econ class next year is either going to be a full-blown nightmare or a total riot."

"You're here for Scott and Stiles, right?" Allison assumed, thinking back to Scott's attempt to lessen her guilt at the clinic the previous Monday. He'd told her how Stiles had struck a squirrel on his skateboard and plowed into a tree in the 6th grade. Allison had dissolved into laughter when she heard that Mal had almost given the creature mouth-to-mouth to try and calm her friend down enough to take him to the hospital for stitches. ("You're not as dumb as they are, so there's that," Scott had chuckled.)

"Yup. They're my best buds," Mal boasted, beaming proudly.

"How long have you guys known each other?"

"Oh man, we go way back. I've known Stiles since kindergarten and Scott since…" She pondered the answer for a second, absently watching Scott put his helmet on. "Hmmm…we met in 4th grade, I think."

"Wow," Allison remarked, unable to imagine being in a place long enough to have such lasting friendships. She'd been drifting from city to city practically her entire life. There were a couple of people she'd kept in sporadic contact with over the years, but when Mal snorted at Stiles, who had just fallen off the players' bench at the sound of the coach's whistle two inches from his ear, Allison understood that what the two girls had in the way of friendship was completely different. The realization made her unspeakably sad.

"Yeah, but it's easy to get along with them. They're really good guys. Scott actually reminds me a lot of my brother." Mal had phrased it so Allison would know that she and Scott were unambiguously platonic without outright saying it and making either of them feel awkward. "He's considerate and easy-going and _so _much fun to be around."

"You sound like you could be his dating profile," Allison joked, distracted from her gloomy thoughts and appreciably more relaxed.

"Which _you _would read exhaustively, am I right?" Mal retorted, turning back to the players and smirking when the smitten girl's mouth opened but no reply came. A second later, she pointed across the field where Jackson had just violently checked Scott with his lacrosse stick. "See? This is why I don't like him!" To the snotty lacrosse captain, she screamed, "Go to hell, Whittemore! That was so uncalled for!"

She didn't need to defend Scott after that, though; he'd stepped up his game, deftly weaving the ball around opposing players and then, sincerely shocking every teammate and spectator by flipping clean over _three_ people to successfully shoot the ball between the goalie's legs and into the net. He pumped his fists in the air as a handful of his teammates circled him, while Allison sprang up, clapping delightedly.

"Scott, you rock!" Mal cheered loudly once she'd gathered her wits, relishing Jackson's evident aggravation as Coach congratulated Scott and appointed him to first line.

She basked in her bliss for hardly a minute, however, glimpsing the fiery hair that belonged to Lydia and then Stiles rubbing his chin anxiously on the bench. "Uh, I have to go," she murmured to Allison, while the strawberry-blonde came to a halt making an abnormally ugly face. Mal didn't wait around to give her the snide remark she would've liked to (something along the lines of, "I'd say it's a pleasure to see you, but then I might as well call grass 'blue' and terrorism 'amusing'. If I'm going to completely disregard conventions of the English language.")

"Hope I see you at the party," Allison whispered to Mal in goodbye, wary of the nettled girl on her other side.

"Allison, why were you talking to that _mutant_? She's not someone you should associate yourself with if you actually _want _people to think you're compos mentis," Lydia warned with patent condescension while Mal was still within earshot.

Allison frowned disappointedly.

Mal hurried over to Stiles, guffawing. "Wow, you have impeccable taste in girls. What a gem, that one," she commented sardonically, jerking her thumb toward his long-time crush. His resulting glower extracted only a half-assed apology from her. "Sorry, just God's honest truth."

He ignored her, staring at Scott worriedly. He had too much on his mind to be wounded by yet another one of Mal's digs at Lydia. "My house, two hours. Don't be late," he ordered, stomping off without another word.

* * *

"All right, Stiles. What's with the nerves? Scott did _great_ today!" Mal praised, entering her best friend's messy room. Stiles's bedroom was always pretty disorganized, but at the moment, it was hard for her to even distinguish the floor under the clutter of books and news articles. Sweeping some of them aside, she conceded, "So he won't be sitting on the bench with you, and that'll suck. But I'm usually there on the bleachers anyway. I'll just sneak down when Coach isn't looking."

"That's not why I'm freaking out!" Stiles screeched, furiously typing away on his computer. His back was hunched over, but every now and then, he'd run a restless hand over his head and let out a short breath. It was obvious that he was extremely stressed out, but Mal had no clue why.

"Then what's the problem? What are you doing, anyway?" she inquired, moving closer to peek over his shoulder. " 'Silver bullet'? 'Lycaon'?" she repeated what she read dubiously. "Why are you Googling werewolf myth – "

Mal stopped mid-sentence, realization washing over her as Stiles swiveled around in his chair to face her, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

"Mal, hear me out," he entreated, jumping out of his seat and guiding her to the foot of his bed. After he sat her down, he rifled through a stack of papers on his desk for an article he could use to substantiate his theory in some way.

Mal followed his frantic movements with her eyes, temporarily speechless, but it seemed like he was too keyed up to actually locate what he was searching for, so she eventually stammered out, "Oh no. No, no, no! Stiles, this is nuts. This – you're – you've finally cracked." She glanced dreadfully around the room at the various book titles; "Lycanthropy: The Howling Wolf", "Werewolvery For Beginners" and "The Meaning of Lunatic" were among them.

"Just listen to me," he implored, striding over to Mal and crouching down beside her as she flopped back onto his mattress with her thumb and middle finger pressed to her temples. He didn't let her stay like that, tugging her once more into a seated position and firmly resting his forearms on her lower thighs to focus her concentration. "You _have_ to listen to me."

"Have to?! This is a whole new level of insanity, even for you!" she squawked, painfully aware of his seriousness. She could usually find the humor in Stiles's jokes – and even the occasional prank – but this was something else entirely.

"Look, I know it's insane, but – "

" – I find that incredibly hard to believe, Stiles," Mal cut in, giving him a sharp look. She very openly accepted that what had happened to Scott was extremely unusual, but the reason had to be grounded in scientific fact. Perhaps an undiscovered strain of the rabies virus Stiles had joked about before.

"Among other things," he countered emphatically, mimicking her glare and folding his arms over his chest.

"Huh, I wonder why? I mean, is anyone else we know a mythological creature? Harley a witch? Lydia a fairy? Maybe my brother's secretly a dragon?" she asked sarcastically, throwing her hands in the air.

"Well…I _do _kinda think Jackson could be an Uruk-hai. Minus the guile and dark skin," he replied with inappropriate pensiveness, starting when someone knocked on his door.

Mal groaned. "Please tell me you didn't call Scott. He has his first date with Allison tonight! He doesn't need an even higher dose of our crazy than usual," she begged uselessly as Stiles collected himself and opened the door.

Seeing who it was, he huffed and beckoned a greatly amused Scott into the room. "Get in. You gotta see this thing. I've been up all night reading – websites, books. All this information!" he explained, waving his arms frenetically.

Mal ran her hands through her hair in frustration and let out a heavy sigh. "Do yourself a favor. Run for it while you still can," she advised.

Scott furrowed his eyebrows for a second and half-teased his hyperactive friend, "How much Adderall have you had today?"

"A lot. Doesn't matter. Okay, just listen."

"I wouldn't if I were you. He's lost his mind," Mal chimed in before receiving a silencing look from Stiles.

"Oh, is this about the body? Did they find out who did it?" Scott asked, settling down next to Mal.

"No, they're still questioning people, even Derek Hale," Stiles revealed.

"What?!" Mal shouted, taken aback and becoming even more cross with Stiles. If there were anything he should've told her immediately, it was that Derek Hale was a suspect in a homicide case. Given that her brother was still friends with him, this was highly relevant information.

"Oh, the guy in the woods that we saw the other day," Scott said almost uninterestedly, like they were discussing algebra homework and not severed bodies.

Trying to steer his friends away from that tangent, Stiles responded, "Yeah! Yes. But that's not it, okay?"

"What, then?" Scott questioned with a laugh.

"No, hang on! Why is he even a _suspect_?" Mal yelped, fretting about Theo. There was no way he knew about Derek's involvement in a murder investigation; after all, he was planning on paying his old friend a visit soon.

"I don't know! I'm not even sure he's been accused of anything, but – That is not the issue here, Mal. Just let me talk!" She growled but then clamped her lips together cooperatively, so that Stiles could continue. "Remember the joke from the other day? Not a joke anymore. The wolf – the bite in the woods. I started doing all this reading. Do you even know why a wolf howls?"

Stiles shot up from his chair, and Scott observed him warily. "Should I?"

"It's a signal, okay? When a wolf's alone, it howls to signal its location to the rest of the pack. So if you heard a wolf howling, that means others could have been nearby. Maybe even a whole pack of 'em," he elaborated.

This caught Mal's attention, and she stopped fidgeting with her jeans. She had to admit that what Stiles had learned about wolves was interesting but did so, of course, only to herself.

"A whole pack of wolves?" Scott recapped.

"No," Stiles corrected, "Werewolves."

Mal grimaced. "Here we go."

Peering between his undeniably moronic friends, Scott stood up and cried, "Are you seriously wasting my time with this? I mean, first Mal wants to cart me off to an insane asylum and now you think I'm a _werewolf_? You guys know I'm picking up Allison in an hour."

"Hey, I'd _never _'cart you off' anywhere!" Mal asserted, crossing her arms defensively.

"We saw you on the field today, Scott." Stiles blocked his escape, dragging Mal into his argument as if she all of a sudden agreed with him. "Okay, what you did wasn't just amazing, all right? It was impossible."

"Yeah, so I made a good shot," Scott said, sounding vaguely offended that no one seemed to think he could've become such a capable athlete simply by practicing as regularly as he had – although even _he_ knew that wasn't true.

"No. You made an incredible shot!" Stiles yelled in exasperation, preventing his friend from leaving by throwing his bag on the bed. "I mean – the way you moved, your speed, your reflexes. Y'know, people can't just suddenly do that overnight. And there's the vision and the senses, and don't even think I don't notice that you don't need your inhaler anymore."

Mal scrunched up her forehead in contemplation. She hadn't the patience to listen to Stiles a few minutes ago, but now, her curiosity was overwhelming. When he said it altogether, she had to acknowledge that it made a little sense. In addition, the adrenaline Scott had suspected was the cause of everything would've worn off by now, and he'd have already gone into shock if that were the case. Mal hadn't noticed he wasn't using his inhaler anymore, but that only reinforced what she was starting to consider. Moreover, no disease she knew of had _improved_ breathing as a side effect.

"You know, he – he might have a point," she spoke up tentatively.

Overlooking their previous quarreling, Stiles pulled her up by the arms and with a determined expression, presented her to Scott like she was the concrete proof. "See? Even Mal thinks so, and she's the one who generally has her head screwed on straight. If she believes me, then so should you!"

"Whoa!" she interrupted, whirling around to clarify, "I didn't say I _believe_ you. We don't know for sure what's going on with Scott."

"Holy god, you are the – the most indecisive person I've ever met!" Stiles accused melodramatically, his eye twitching. Snidely, he prattled on, "Do you want to flip a coin like Two-Face? See if you can make up your mind then? Heads says you listen to me and never, ever doubt anything I say ever again, and tails – well, tails says the same freakin' thing because it's a two-headed coin. Or – wait, no, this analogy sounded a lot less faulty in my head. Could you just back me up, please?"

"Look, I have no idea what's happening to him. All I'm saying is that maybe, _maybe_, there might be a tiny chance he's…um…no longer technically, fully human," Mal stalled, risking a timid glance at Scott. She was reluctant to make any sort of definitive statement.

"Okay, stop! Guys, I can't think about this now. We'll talk tomorrow," Scott tried to delay, averse to thinking about the possibility – however remote – that he was a werewolf. After all, he had a date with the girl of his dreams in less than an hour; there were more pressing things on his mind, like which of his jeans didn't have a hole in the butt and whether or not his mom would let him stay out an hour or two past curfew just this once.

"Tomorrow?! No! The full moon's tonight," Stiles shrieked, still holding Mal and now shaking her. She jerked away from him and rubbed her arms while he urgently demanded, "Don't you get it?"

"What are you trying to do?" Scott barked. "I just made first line. I got a date with a girl who I can't believe wants to go out with me, and everything in my life is somehow perfect. Why are my so-called _best friends_ trying to ruin it?"

"We _are _your best friends. That's why we wanna help you," Mal defended levelheadedly.

"You're cursed, Scott. You know, and it's not just the moon will cause you to physically change. It also just so happens to be when your bloodlust will be at its peak," Stiles informed them.

"Bloodlust?" the other two teens asked in unison, Scott with impatience and Mal with just plain cluelessness.

"Yeah, the urge to kill."

"I'm already starting to feel an urge to kill, Stiles," Scott warned, significantly unsettling Mal. He'd never spoken to anyone that way. Ever.

"Okay, I think we all need to cool it a little," she cautioned, placing a palm against his chest but also staring pointedly at Stiles.

"No, Scott has to hear this," he protested, opening the book he couldn't find before and quoting from one of its passages, "'The change can be caused by anger or anything that raises your pulse.'" Spinning around, he exclaimed, "All right? I haven't seen anyone raise your pulse like Allison does. You gotta cancel this date. I'm gonna call her right now." He charged at Scott's backpack, yanking out his phone.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm canceling the date," he reiterated, about to dial Allison's number when Scott did the absolute worst thing Mal had ever seen him do.

"No, give it to me!" he bellowed, slamming Stiles against the wall, a snarl tarnishing his countenance and a fist aimed at the defenseless boy in front of him.

"Scott, stop!" Mal screamed, struck motionless by the chaos and beholding Stiles in despair. He had squeezed his eyes shut in preparation for some kind of blow from Scott, looking as terrified as Mal felt. When, at last, she came to her senses, she lunged forward to pull Scott off of him but had to quickly move aside to avoid the desk chair he ended up taking his anger out on instead. Hurled aside savagely, it missed her by an inch.

Scott panted noisily, remorse replacing his previous snarl, while Stiles's shoulders sank in relief. The next few seconds were palpably tense and felt like someone had stretched them out indefinitely, but then, Scott finally stuttered out, "I'm sorry. I – I gotta go get ready f – for that party."

Clutching his backpack, he trudged toward the door, but Mal hastily stepped in front of him, barring the exit. "You can't be serious! You almost punched Stiles! _Our_ Stiles! What's the matter with you?!" she thundered.

"I'm sorry," Scott repeated sincerely, reaching out for Mal's shoulder. But she recoiled from him, much to his distress.

Mal wanted to make sure Stiles wasn't hurt, and she was still really upset that Scott had almost hit their best friend. She ghosted her fingers over Stiles's cotton t-shirt, exposed neck, and then the back of his head to check for damage. As she did so, he watched her, absorbed in dismal thought. Scott couldn't bear to look at them, so he left, truly miserable about what he'd nearly done to the one guy in his life who'd only ever been there for him and angry at himself for letting Mal down because of it. When Stiles thumped his head against the wall unhappily, she drew him in for a hug, patting his back softly. It was a little weird at first, like their limbs were mismatched puzzle pieces being forced together, but after a few seconds, Stiles rested his chin on top of Mal's shoulder and settled his arms loosely around her upper back, hers around his torso. He reveled in the immediate stillness he always got from her hugs, rare as they were, before grudgingly letting go to pick up the fallen chair.

All sense of peace dissipated when he discovered the three jagged tears on the back. "Uh, Mal, you need to see this." He moved out of the way to show her.

"Oh, God," she breathed, her eyes bulging in terror as she swallowed the lump in her throat. She examined the claw-like marks from every angle, only then coming to the fixed conclusion that a human couldn't have possibly created them. But the whole afternoon still felt surreal, as if she'd fallen asleep in the armchair in her living room and had dreamt up this whole ordeal, as if her subconscious was refusing to cut her some slack and allow her a couple of hours of unicorn and house-made-of-candy fantasies. Mal needed something tangible, so she reached out her hand and grazed her finger pads over the slashes, nearly tripping over her feet after flinching back at the fleeting metallic tang in her mouth. Shaken and wholly uncertain about what to make of it, she mumbled, "I think it's safe to say you told me so."

"We have to go to that party. We have to protect him," Stiles insisted, snatching up the car keys from his desk and handing Mal her backpack. Under the circumstances, it was understandable that he didn't sound thrilled at the prospect of seeing Lydia.

"And Allison," Mal said in agreement, slipping her arms through her coat sleeves.

As Stiles backed the Jeep out of his driveway, she realized with unease what the sharp taste had been: fresh blood.


	5. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: The beautiful song mentioned too many times below not to explicitly state the name of is called "Keep the Car Running" and is the sole artistic property of the life-altering band, Arcade Fire. (I strongly suggest you listen to the song while you read the scene it accompanies. There's a link on my profile if you need it.)

* * *

**Chapter 4**

_They know my name 'cause I told it to them  
But they don't know where and they don't know when  
It's coming, oh, when, but it's coming,  
Keep the car running_

The Jeep flew in the direction of Lydia's house for about twenty seconds before Stiles realized it was only 7:30 and Scott probably hadn't even gotten home yet. He told Mal he'd drop her off at her place so she could get ready for the party, to which she petulantly replied, "It's a Friday night, and I'm being forced to hang out in the _devil's_ company. I honestly couldn't care less what she – or anyone else – sees me in."

"Mal, you have to at least _pretend_ you want to be there," Stiles commanded, twitching ever so slightly. Sometimes, he really resented her inability to cooperate with him. It was like she enjoyed pushing his buttons.

"Oh, I really don't think so. I'm only going to this thing for Scott. 'Black tie' and 'enjoyment' optional," she stubbornly argued, glaring out of the window.

Nine minutes later, she found herself being shunted out of Stiles's car.

"If you're not wearing something nice when I get back here, I will dress you myself like you're a frickin' three-year-old," he threatened her, leaning down to give her a severe look through the passenger side window. "You've got half an hour."

"This is so uncool, Stiles!" Mal called after him, stomping her foot like a child, as he tore off down her street. She hauled herself into her room grumpily but perked up at the very welcome surprise lying on the bed with her legs crossed behind her and a fist pressed against her cheek, reading Mal's copy of "The Hobbit". "Harley! How'd you – "

"Through the window," Harley answered without so much as a glance up, casually flipping a page like it was perfectly normal that she'd broken into her friend's second-story room.

"Oh sure, the window…You know, you're becoming more like Stiles every day," Mal notified her with a smirk, proceeding to tunnel through her closet for something house-party-appropriate. It looked like a Forever 21 had thrown up in there; dresses, skirts, and all manner of blouses were lying in messy piles, most of which hadn't been worn in about a year and some of which badly needed to be washed.

"Ouch, that's mean," Harley laughed, setting the book down and rolling onto her side with a daydreamy expression. "Hey, is your brother here?" she asked, wiggling her eyebrows naughtily.

Mal suffered a flash of panic, her heart palpitating erratically while one of her hands hovered over a teal-colored crop top on the closet floor. She didn't know Theo's whereabouts and was extremely conscious of the possibility that he was hanging out with a potential killer. But then she shook her head to clear it, pushing down her fright and trying to take into account that she knew too little to judge someone the police could've been questioning for any number of reasons. _What do I know about Derek Hale?_ she rationalized, snatching up the top. Sufficiently calmed down, she poked her head around the door to give her friend a very displeased stare. "Dear God, please don't do this again. You know Theo's gay," she reminded the infatuated girl, who shrugged blithely.

"Maybe he's bi. I can't take any chances. I mean, what if he saw me one day and thought, 'Huh, I never noticed it before, but I just want to rip Harley's clothes off'?…I'm choosing to remain optimistic."

Mal made a distinct gagging noise as she rooted around the heap of clothes on the floor to unfetter her favorite skirt, the one that was both cute and comfortable. "Eugh, I am now _begging_ you to stop talking about my exclusively man-loving brother."

Harley stuck her tongue out at Mal's back but said, "Fine. At least tell me you changed your mind about Lydia's thing tonight. 'Cause I kind of wanna go. But only if you and Stiles are there."

"Unfortunately," Mal blurted before she could stop herself. She grimaced at her stupidity, feigning nonchalance as she trod out of the closet with her selected outfit.

But Harley knew better and was blinking in disbelief. "Oh, really? I always thought your golden rule was to never go anywhere on a weekend that put you within a ten foot radius of Lydia Martin."

"Um, it usually is. But…Scott has his date with Allison. His _first_ date. So, I'm making an exception – just this once – for moral support," Mal lied, passably but without polish.

Luckily, Harley just shrugged, accepting the pretext. "All right, weirdo. Can I borrow your grey jeans, then? The pair without holes?"

Relieved, Mal nodded her permission. "Bottom drawer," she said, vacating her bedroom to shower and change. Scrubbing her body and shampooing her hair vigorously, she meditated on the day's events.

There was a ninety percent chance Scott was a werewolf, and that was Mal's conservative estimate. His senses were enhanced; he'd sleepwalked the night after he was bitten; he'd acquired the agility of an acrobat overnight, as demonstrated by his performance during lacrosse eliminations; he'd almost assaulted Stiles; and most convincing among all of the reasons Scott had to be...what he was...were the three scratches on the back of Stiles's desk chair. Mal couldn't begin to understand the nonexistent blood she'd tasted in her mouth when she'd touched the claw marks, but it cemented her sensation of foreboding. The impending full moon tied all of the facts together, and anything that happened to Scott that night would, in all likelihood, prove that Stiles's theory wasn't the least bit far-fetched. While that freaked her out, Mal knew it was crucial that she maintain her composure (or what was left of it, anyway). Especially with Harley on the other side of the wall. Stiles was right; she had to pretend she wanted to be at Lydia's party, at least until – _No, not thinking about that right now_, she decided with a shake of her head.

Mal dried off and threw her clothes on, setting aside the dread that had partially stemmed from the prediction that she'd be awkwardly standing around in Lydia's backyard with a cup of "beer" in less than two hours while Stiles either stared at the strawberry blonde and her jock boyfriend groping each other or Scott and Allison trying to enjoy their first date. It would ordinarily have comforted her to know that Harley would be there as well, but in this particular case, it only made her antsy; she didn't need additions to the list of people she'd have to somehow protect. Which was yet another concern that Mal had to sweep under the metaphorical carpet.

Her blow-drier made a distracting and much-appreciated racket, allowing her to get ready in relative peace. She tied half of her hair up to uphold the pretense of "ordinary, teenaged, party girl" and smoothed out the imaginary wrinkles in her top, taking a deep and fortifying breath.

When Mal slinked out of her bathroom, Harley legitimately wolf-whistled. "Nevermind a stick, you're gonna have to beat guys off with the whole tree trunk. And definitely a couple girls, too."

Mal shook her head laughingly as she rummaged through her jewelry box for the Christmas present Mrs. McCall had given her a few weeks ago. "I swear my clothes still look better on you, though," she said admiringly, fastening the beaded necklace and earrings in place and giving Harley a playful once-over that would've made her friend positively glow had it come from the older Durant instead.

"Can you believe Scott finally has a date with a girl? A real _human_ girl?" Harley asked, her snicker hindered by the adept fingers that were smearing on lip-gloss in the bathroom mirror. Pleased, she smacked her lips and worked on Mal's make-up next, even applying a touch of blush on her friend's cheeks. "And before either one of _us_, too," she added as an afterthought.

Momentarily forgetting her vexation with Scott, Mal smiled tenderly. "Yeah, I can. He's one of the good ones."

Ruminating on their dispute in Stiles's room, she wondered if maybe she'd been too harsh with Scott. After all, he was more than likely going to develop fangs and claws within a few hours, in which case his awful behavior could only be attributed to the "bloodlust" Stiles had warned them about. Scott would need his best friends by his side, now more than ever, and Mal was determined not to abandon him. Regretfully, she reminded herself that that was what had gotten him into this mess in the first place.

A honk from Mal's driveway yanked her out of her brooding. "That'll be Stiles. Want a ride?"

"Nah, I've got the car today. And like most sixteen-year-olds, Mal, I'm not a lazy bum who couldn't be bothered to get her license," Harley baited her, arms folding judgmentally.

Mal had been eligible to drive for quite awhile, having turned sixteen in October, but was too impatient to undergo thirty-six hours of Driver's Ed classes and too work-shy to study for the actual test.

"Well, aren't you all _so_ special?" she retorted, glaring back at Harley as they descended the stairs. Her attitude toward driving at their age was, 'Why bother when you can mooch rides off of your best friends?' Mal figured that between the three of them, two licenses were plenty.

Harley zipped up her hoodie and smirked. "Granted, if I had Scott and Stiles to chauffeur _me_ around, I probably wouldn't bother with it, either."

Mal pursed her lips, stuffing her wallet and cell phone into the pockets of her brown pea coat. "I'm pretty sure they're just being Good Samaritans and trying to save the world from my atrocious driving," she defended, opening the front door to let Harley through after tugging on a pair of brown boots.

"Oh, so Stiles _wouldn't_ take you to India and back? Just for the hell of it?" she confidently countered, making Mal grin like an idiot. Sharing a wave with the boy in the Jeep and then ducking into her Ford Escape, Harley said, "Tell the goober I want my Tune-Yards CD back!"

She sped off toward the party before she could see Mal's exaggerated eye-roll.

"She wants her Tune-Yards CD back," Mal relayed to Stiles as she removed her coat and buckled her seatbelt.

Peering up at him, she discovered his hazel eyes practically boring holes in her outfit. Twice, they wandered with patent appreciation over her teal cropped tank top and green circle skirt. Her clothes were modest, but the top had ridden up a little once she'd sat down, and Stiles's gaze was now lingering unintentionally on her exposed middle back.

"You – you clean up – you look – well," he gauchely observed after clearing his throat. His cheeks turned a light rose color, and Mal distinctly heard him mutter, "Shit", to himself before he hurriedly explained, "That wasn't – I didn't – what I mean is, you clean up well."

She smiled crookedly, relaxing her spine and disregarding how it had stiffened while he'd been examining her so intently. "Through coercion," she responded cleverly. Taking in his light pink button-down, black tie and grey slacks, she added, "But so do you. New shirt?"

"We might have to be on Werewolf Watch tonight, but that doesn't mean we can't look irresistible doing it," Stiles justified with a small smirk, sliding back into easy conversation with his best friend and loosening his oddly tight grip on the steering wheel.

Mal chuckled as he peeled out of the driveway but then puffed out a breath, her stress returning all at once. "About that. What's the protocol for protecting a bunch of teenagers from a fledgling werewolf? I mean, is there a plan or do we just kinda wing it?"

"Um. Well, I was thinking we just keep an eye on him until he does something…werewolf-y," Stiles answered insufficiently. When Mal squinted at him skeptically, he drily declared, "_Sorry_, I must've lost the instruction manual." Mal sniffed at his sarcasm, but he carried on. "A day ago, this whole thing was one huge joke, remember? And anyway, _you_ only believed me after Round 1 of 'Scott's Cranky Times'!"

Mal cringed, dragging a hand down her face. "Because this stuff isn't supposed to be real, Stiles! It's like we got sucked into one of those crappy horror movies you love so much!" she exclaimed agitatedly.

Stiles groaned. "I don't love crappy – I'm aware of how bad this is, okay? But – there's no point denying it anymore. He's a supernatural beast, and we just have to deal," he sighed, his countenance transparently overwrought.

Mal dipped her head and slouched against her seat defeatedly, coming to grips with the fact that there would be no controlling the imminent mayhem. None at all.

* * *

The party was in full swing when Stiles and Mal arrived at Lydia's house. The popular girl had a predictably large home, currently overflowing with rambunctious teenagers, which was strange because more than half of them were still mostly sober. Several people were loitering on the front lawn, some of them smoking weed and apparently having a good time – if their loud giggling at the tiny, black-and-white Papillon yapping at them were any indication. Music was blaring out of the house and could surely be heard a couple blocks down; Mal almost couldn't make sense of how not a single one of the neighbors had complained or called the cops yet. Especially since she'd been able to smell marijuana from _inside _the Jeep. But then she realized that Lydia must've always had parties this wild and that maybe everyone was used to them by now.

It was partly because Stiles needed to escape the stench that the pair wandered into the house. Mal scanned the foyer and living room for Scott and his familiar mop of dark brown hair. Unable to locate him, she shared a nervous glance with Stiles, who clutched her wrist and pulled her through the horde of high schoolers and out onto Lydia's patio.

The music had reached the level of noise heard only at a concert, so she shouted, "Can you see him? Or Allison?"

Mal wasn't that short; she stood at a respectable 5'5". But Stiles had the advantage of an extra six inches and could easily exploit them to survey the crowd.

"I don't think they're here yet," he yelled in return, directing her back inside in order to talk to her properly. At a loss for where else to look, he asked her, "Whaddya wanna do now?"

"Stab pins in my face," she griped, shoving her hands into her coat pockets and inspecting the ceiling with apathy.

Stiles exhaled in sympathy, certain that Mal would rather have been lounging on her bed with her laptop and the latest _Gorillaz_ album. "Hey, I get that standing in Lydia Martin's hallway is your worst nightmare or whatever. But we're at this shindig, right? Can you please _try _to have some fun?"

Mal snorted as a grudging smile made its appearance. "Play now, work later?"

Stiles winked in reply. "Want a Coke?" he thoughtfully offered, mindful of his companion's abstinence from alcohol. She'd said once that it wasn't the thoughtless behavior that bothered her – she'd smoked a decent amount of weed – but rather the vileness of the taste.

"Yeah, thanks," she answered, setting her coat down atop a pile on the couch.

"Wait here," he commanded, leaving her alone to race toward the table of drinks by the pool.

This turned out to be an incredibly bad idea when Lydia swooped in on Mal not five seconds afterward, dressed to perhaps literally kill. "What are you doing here?" she demanded testily, getting so close to Mal, she had to take a few steps back.

"Um, what does it look like? Partying. Having a rollicking good time. Roistering, if you will," Mal deadpanned, standing around just as awkwardly as she'd previously guessed. Fortunately, she managed to hide her fidgeting from Lydia, who narrowed her eyes, unsurprisingly displeased.

"The invitation was open to Homo sapiens only," she snapped, placing her hands on her hips.

Mal bit her lip to refrain from laughing derisively. "_Sub_-persona non grata. Understood. Kinda bans you from your own party, though, doesn't it?" she inquired, furrowing her eyebrows in false contemplation.

The livid girl's jaw tensed, but she didn't address the insult. "Why are you in my _house_?" she repeated scornfully.

"Yikes, you really don't like me," Mal said with an irreverent grin, frowning at Lydia mockingly when her nostrils flared. "Oh, unclench, Martin. Allison invited me. Which is baffling because I personally think she's way too pleasant – and _sane_ – to be wasting her time with you."

"Funny, I was going to say the same about _you_, Durant – Or is it Kosta today? I never know which one to use. In all fairness, it kind of seems like you just switch whenever you get bored," Lydia bit back with a contemptuous smile. After a dramatic pause, she scathingly continued, "_Sweetheart_, you might consider sticking exclusively with Kosta. Since it's virtually a cast-iron guarantee that your current freakishness is going to evolve into a full-blown and certifiable psychosis any day now...If it hasn't already."

Mal smiled thinly, boiling on the inside but loath to gratify her archenemy. "Wow, that has to be the wittiest thing you've ever said to me. Or anyone at all. Props to you. I mean as usual, you have no idea what you're talking about, but interesting choice of words, _honey_," she sneered pointedly, smothering the foul emotions brought up by the subject Lydia had broached.

The mean girl was on the verge of retaliating when Mal vanished into the crowd around them, successfully cutting Lydia off. With any luck, a sixteen-year-old werewolf would be the only horror she'd have to contend with for the rest of the night.

Stiles was nowhere to be seen on the patio, but she heaved a sigh of relief when she spotted Scott and Allison chatting by a pillar near the door. "Oh, thank God!" she cried, thrilled that she'd successfully escaped Lydia and that her best friend was still human.

"Hey, you came!" Allison hailed her cheerfully. Mal noted with a proud smile that her fingers were laced into Scott's.

"Not my kind of music," Mal commented as the DJ played an electropop track. "But how could I resist the lively entertainment?" she added, gesturing with her chin at a lacrosse player she knew only as "Greenberg", who'd just belly-flopped into the pool with a sickening whump.

Scott and his date chuckled, albeit on opposite ends of the comfort spectrum.

It was bizarre for him, the most constant girl in his life and the newest one talking to each other so easily. He'd seen them on the bleachers that day but suddenly realized he'd never actually introduced the two of them. "Hang on. When did you guys meet?" he asked, pointing between them.

"Last period. Mallory lent me a hand with something," Allison answered radiantly.

"Yes, Scott. Contrary to popular belief, I _can _be sociable with other people," Mal confirmed wryly when he blinked in confusion.

Scott rolled his eyes. " 'Mallory'?" he aped in amusement. He rarely ever called her that.

"Oh yeah!" she cut in to clarify. "Allison, it's totally fine if you wanna call me 'Mal'. Scott and Stiles do, anyway."

At the mention of his other companion, Scott's face visibly blanched. "Is he – is Stiles here?"

Doing her best to communicate that he was already forgiven, Mal aimed a deliberate and meaningful stare at him. "Yeah. I'm not sure where he disappeared to, but don't worry, he's – enjoying himself," she explained, and Scott seemed to understand what she meant because he was beaming brightly.

"Good, I'm glad."

The trio exchanged friendly conversation after that. About Allison's move to Beacon Hills and about school – though Mal was careful not to dwell on the topic of lacrosse. Allison even shared a story about her dad's gun collection, keeping it light so as not to frighten Scott, whose grimace was not lost on the two girls.

Mal had the question, "So, Allison, favorite band?", on the tip of her tongue when the music changed and she no longer needed it. More to the point, she'd briefly lost her ability to form coherent thoughts. This song was her nirvana.

The gradual build of the melody prompted Mal and Allison to squeal in elated unison, "Oh my God! This is my – ". But having no need to finish the sentence, they stopped to grin at each other, while Scott peered between them in slightly disoriented happiness.

"No way! You, too?" Mal asked incredulously, gaping with newfound veneration at the other girl, who nodded enthusiastically.

"Absolutely. They're, like, the quintessential indie band. I completely adore them!" Allison gushed, swaying to the first of the drumbeats.

Mal flourished her hands at Allison in fervent accord. "Yes! You get it! Okay, we are – we are _so _having an in-depth discussion about this later, but right now, I – I've gotta find Stiles!" she announced, sounding flustered as she stood on the tips of her toes and struggled to pinpoint him. So as not to miss out on too much of the song, she dashed through the throng of dancing teenagers, cutting Scott and Allison off before they could say anything. Mal searched for Stiles excitedly and a few seconds later, caught sight of his buzz-cut. He was swiveling in his spot in the middle of the backyard-turned-dance-floor and hollering her name over and over again at the tops of his lungs. She gesticulated frantically, and when he met her eager blue eyes, he literally bowled people over in his hurry to reach her.

Stiles grabbed her hand without delay and spun her around under his arm as the bass dropped and the music intensified. Several people had to move out of their way, and the pair roared with laughter until Win Butler began singing again.

_There's a weight that's pressing down  
Late at night you can hear the sound  
Even the noise you make when you sleep  
Can't swim across a river so deep_

They didn't talk, just stayed close to each other and danced to the rhythm that was virtually impossible not to enjoy. Not only for Mal and Stiles – or Allison and Scott, who were giggling and dancing uninhibitedly themselves – but also for the majority of the other partygoers, who were at the very least tapping their feet on the ground. Mal and Stiles mouthed the lyrics while he danced with stunning grace (stunning for him, anyway.) He didn't flail his arms or legs but bounced to the upbeat-sounding chorus, his body occasionally moving as if he belonged in an indie film. That's what Mal thought, in any case, pausing to appreciate it once Stiles had shut his eyes.

_There's this fear I keep so deep  
Knew its name since before I could speak, yeah  
Aaaaah Aaaaah Aaaaah Aaaaah_

Stiles's eyelids flickered open when Mal sang along audibly and kicked her legs out, apparently having switched typical dance techniques with him. She tossed her head from side to side, and he smiled at her warmly, his gaze affixed to her. (Which was amazing since Lydia was making out with Jackson in the corner no further than two yards from them.) Stiles luxuriated in the ambiance provided by the melody and Mal's pirouetting and the twinkling lights hanging overhead. This was also his nirvana.

_If some night I don't come home  
Please don't think I've left you alone_

Mal twirled some more, her hands in the air while her skirt fanned out around her. She even took Stiles's hand to spin _him_ a couple of times, stretching while he awkwardly bent down to execute the dance move. All concerns about werewolves and cruel teenage girls lay forgotten on the ground.

The tune was vastly lighter than the lyrics, but this was Mal's go-to song when she was upset. Theo had once asked her why, but she couldn't say. It simply was.

She jumped alongside Stiles and a large number of the other kids dancing until the final beats were banged out on the drums and the music cut out.

Stiles turned to Mal with the widest and goofiest smile on his face. 'Exhilarated' was the only word that came to her mind to describe it. "Does this lessen the torture of being here?" he asked with a breathy chuckle. But Mal was also heaving with breath, so he answered himself, "I'll take your muteness as a 'Yes'."

Leading them to a cooler of sodas on the ground and then pitching a can of Coke to Stiles, she shrewdly asked him, "Did you do that?"

"Possibly." He shrugged innocently while he popped open the tab, goofy grin still in place.

Mal shook her head, stunned. After all these years, Stiles's sensitivity still somehow managed to surprise her. Not many people understood her the way he clearly did. She was speechless only for a moment, though, swiftly recovering to express her gratitude. "You – I'm glad you exist."

Stiles briefly looked like he didn't know what to say to that, but then he smirked with evident self-satisfaction. "Well, I couldn't have you stabbing pins in your eyes, 'cause my dad would definitely team up with your mom to kill me and then temporarily bring me back just to get some yelling in. Guess I figured Arcade Fire would be an effective preemptive strike against all that…"

"Oh, effective, for sure," she agreed, giving Stiles a broad, lopsided smile when he gulped down his soda and belched obnoxiously enough to rival Buddy the Elf.

He beamed with pleasure. "Then it was totally worth the five bucks I had to bribe the DJ with."

* * *

Mal's euphoria didn't last long. Half an hour later, she wanted to smack herself – and quite frankly, Stiles.

She'd been leaning against Lydia's kitchen wall, chatting idly with Harley and some of the other girls on the cross-country team, when he hurtled into the room and nearly crashed into her. "We gotta go. Like _now_," he muttered, sternly tugging her away from the group while Harley watched them curiously.

"It's really happening? Where did he go? Should we follow him? Is Allison safe? What are we going to tell Harley?" Mal shot her questions at him with startling speed, and his eyes widened as he attempted to distinguish one from another and usher her to the Jeep at the same time.

"God, I don't know!" he shrieked, essentially diving into his seat. "What are you even saying?!"

"Allison," Mal said firmly, picking the most manageable problem first. "Is she okay?"

"Wha – yeah, she's fine. I guess Scott fled before he could – rip into her," he supplied with a grimace. "I…saw her get a ride home."

"From who?" Mal questioned tensely, picking up on his hesitance and letting her hand linger over the door handle as she spoke to him through the open passenger side window.

Stiles peeked at her nervously. "Um, you may not like this..."

"I hate it when you start sentences that way," she grumbled, huffing in annoyance.

"Derek Hale," he burst out, before rolling his lips into his mouth and staring fixedly out of the windshield.

"Please tell me you know a multitude of 'Derek Hales', and at least one of them isn't a potential _murder suspect_?" Mal pleaded shrilly, her nails digging into her left palm.

"I know a multitude of 'Derek Hales' and at least one of them isn't a potential murder suspect," Stiles parroted flippantly, but he was also beginning to feel kind of guilty for letting Allison leave with Derek. Even if he wasn't a murderer, he was still a significantly older man and a total stranger to Allison, which begged the question: how _had _he convinced her to go with him?

Mal pinched the bridge of her nose, thinking on her feet. Hastily, she said, "Okay, genius. This is what we're gonna do. You go after Scott, check that he hasn't – torn anyone into shreds, and I'll get ahold of Allison and make sure she's all right."

She thumped on the Jeep to light a fire under Stiles, but he caught her hand. "Whoa, wait! How are you gonna do that? _You_ don't have a car! – And you don't know where she lives!" he aptly pointed out.

"But Harley does. They're neighbors, remember? Look, I'll figure out an excuse, all right? Just go!" she commanded, and he started the car quickly. "Call me when you can – and for the love of God, _please_ don't do anything reckless!"

"Same goes for you!" he countered snappily, giving her a significant look.

As the Jeep streaked down the road, Mal sprinted across the street to find Harley, berating herself for having been too disinterested to get her license. It would've been highly useful in the present crisis.

She reeled back at the sight of her sable-haired friend waiting impatiently by Lydia's front door. Understandably, Harley had noticed the abnormal level of weird with her and Stiles. "What the hell is going on? Where's Scott? New Girl said he just bolted?" she interrogated with more than a hint of disappointment.

"He – wasn't feeling well? He's, um, throwing up right now. Violently," Mal lied, flinching indiscernibly at her crassness. She hadn't seen Scott leave but assumed it'd been without an acceptable reason. "Listen," she continued urgently, removing her coat from the heap on Lydia's couch and shrugging it on, "I'm really sorry to have to ask you a favor like this – I know you're having fun and everything – but could you give me a ride to Allison's? She – Scott feels awful about ditching her, and he wanted me to apologize for him."

But this was evidently the wrong approach, because Harley angrily objected, "If Scott's gonna bail on a girl half-way through their date and ask _you_ to apologize for him, he doesn't deserve to be forgiven. That's a dick move!"

Mal all but stamped her foot before forcing herself to take a deep breath. "Harley. He's a good guy. You _know_ he's a good guy. This was supposed to be an awesome first date for him and Allison, but it turned to crap because he got sick, okay? Could you please just help _me_ help him out? If this simmers too long, she'll – she'll hate him."

"Why can't Stiles drive you?" Harley asked defiantly. "Where'd _he_ go?"

"After Scott. To make sure he didn't crash Mrs. McCall's car into a mailbox or something," Mal lied again, more fluidly than before. She was both bothered by and moderately proud of her ability to do so. "Please. Just this one favor?"

Harley zipped open her purse and dug her keys out from inside. "You guys _so_ owe me one," she mumbled, tramping to her Ford Escape and unlocking the doors. "You're damn lucky I've only had Ginger-Ale."

Mal scurried after her, practically extolling Harley's generosity. "You are beautiful and wonderful! And Scott will love you forev – "

"Yeah, yeah. Save it for New Girl," she said brusquely, adjusting the rearview mirror while Mal put her seatbelt on. As they got farther away from the party, the silence in the car grew louder. It was uncomfortable but thankfully, short-lived, and after a couple of minutes, Harley inquired with an inscrutable expression, "So has Stilinski been taking dance lessons or...?"

A boorish snort escaped Mal, effectively cutting any lasting tension. "Kinda seems like the only explanation, doesn't it?"

"He didn't break out a single one of his typical White Dad moves," Harley teased, although utterly amazed. "Not even The Sprinkler."

"I call it 'The Win Butler Effect'. It's impossible to dance poorly to Arcade Fire," Mal declared as Harley pulled into the Argent's driveway.

"Look, Scott should _really_ be the one doing this, but I know you care too much about him to give a shit about being this involved in his love life. So, good luck – or something to that effect," she offered, as close to encouraging as she'd be on the matter. Even though all Mal actually intended to do was confirm that Allison was still intact and not, for example, having pieces of her body scattered all over the woods.

In fact, she heartily agreed with Harley: Allison deserved an apology directly from Scott. Once the looming threat of bloodshed was behind all of them, which reminded her…

"Hey, could you do one more thing for me?" At her friend's waspish frown, Mal babbled incoherently, "Don'tgobacktothepartygostraighthomeandlockyourdoors."

"What? Mal, you have to _pause_ between words," Harley patronized with a mocking smile.

"Right. Um – just stay safe, okay? That woman was cut in half, and if her killer's of the serial persuasion, then…just be careful," Mal requested solemnly.

"Sure, will do," Harley promised with a changed attitude. "Do you want me to wait for you?"

"No, I'll call Stiles."

Mal mostly declined because she didn't want Harley to remain out in the open and vulnerable – to either a murderer or potentially-blood-lusting-werewolf Scott. But she also wasn't certain where Allison was, and Mal didn't have even the roughest idea for a suitable explanation of the possibility that she wasn't coming home. It was simply best that Harley never know the truth.

And so, mercifully unaware of the horror brewing in the town of Beacon Hills, Harley bid her companion farewell.

* * *

Mal paced on the new girl's front porch for what felt like hours but was actually less than three minutes, debating between ringing the Argent's doorbell – with the understanding that they'd probably panic if some random girl came asking for Allison and she wasn't there – and waiting outside until she hopefully showed up. Mal wanted to believe Derek wouldn't hurt an innocent girl by the logic that her brother, who was typically a fantastic judge of character, _had_ been friends with him in high school. But this was more for her peace of mind than anything else, since she didn't know the first thing about twenty-four-year-old Derek Hale. He might've gone insane and turned into a callous butcher after his family was destroyed in that fire. More than anyone else, Mal knew this was plausible. Plus, if Derek was in fact being questioned for murdering the girl in the woods, what were the chances that the Sheriff was mistaken? He was a seasoned policeman and had closed several cases like this before; his time with the department only strengthened his expertise. And now Mal's restlessness.

Just as she was about to hammer on the door, the sound of car wheels gliding over asphalt reached her ears. She swiveled around, her hand dropping by her side as she squinted at the approaching jet-black Camaro. Scrambling to the car, she rapped sharply on the driver's window five times before it rolled down to reveal a relatively disgruntled young man.

"Can I help you with something?" Derek uttered with unnerving calm, despite the fact that this intrusive girl was bothering him for a second time.

Mal's worries were assuaged at the sight of the tall brunette hopping out of the passenger's side, not a hair out of place or a scratch on her flawless skin. Mal waved at her, just about squeaking with relief.

Projecting some of her discontentment with Scott onto his best friend, Allison acknowledged Mal curtly. "Oh. Mallory. What are you doing here?"

"Making sure you got home okay after Scott had to rush off like that," she asserted, her reason finally genuine.

"Yeah, well you know Derek, right? He offered me a ride," Allison stated, wrongly inferring that since he claimed to be Scott's friend, he was also Mal's.

Mal had no idea what Allison was talking about but hummed noncommittally anyway, not wanting to alarm her. "How _generous_ of him," she complimented insincerely, a saccharine smile plastered on her face as she speculated about Derek's dubious intentions.

He picked up on her veiled hostility but kept up the polite charade. "It was no problem. _Really_," he said through his own fake smile. Mal hadn't the slightest clue what he meant or whether it was somehow a threat in disguise.

"Could you give us a minute, Allison?" she asked amiably, simultaneously leveling a muted glare at Derek. When Allison furrowed her brow and didn't move, Mal clarified, "I haven't seen him in awhile."

Allison walked to her porch and shuffled on its steps, averting her gaze, as it seemed that Mal desired privacy – for whatever reason.

Mal sunk to the shady stranger's eye level, digging her fingertips into her thighs. "Why?" she confronted Derek in a low voice, unafraid only because Allison was so close. _He wouldn't pull anything now, right?_

"Like you said. I'm _generous_," he mimicked in a monotone, staring Mal dead in the eye.

She swallowed heavily, his glinting grey irises almost causing her to lose her cool. "Look, I don't know what you're after or if you were the one who…killed that woman in the woods. But whatever your issue is, leave _her_ out of it," she ordered, her heart palpitating as she darted a glance at Allison. The warning was feeble, with nothing to back it up, but she deemed the steadiness of her voice an ample victory.

Derek quirked an inquisitive eyebrow at her, concealing a smirk. He'd heard her erratic pulse, but it seemed that the foolish girl had no qualms about trying to intimidate him, a guy she'd hardly ever spoken to and who obviously terrified her. "Her date stranded her at a party overrun with drunk and stupid teenagers. I did them both a_ favor_," he murmured disdainfully, outwardly brushing off the allegations she'd made.

A second later, the growl of a brand-new werewolf captured Derek's attention, a noise only he could detect this far away. So, he revved up the Camaro's engine and abruptly drove off, foiling any and all attempts Mal would've made to legitimately threaten a grown man.

She would've been enraged were it not for an unsuspecting Allison waiting patiently in the cold. Ignoring the buzzing in her coat pocket, Mal joined the other girl on the porch. "Sorry about that, I wanted to…ask him something," she said vaguely.

"Sure. Catching up, I get it," Allison responded politely, wondering to herself whether Scott's best friend would grant her a straightforward answer to the question that had been plaguing her for the past twenty minutes. Deciding she wouldn't, Allison stated in a tone of dismissal, "Well, I got home okay, so if that's all you needed…"

"Oh. Yeah – I mean – It is all I needed but…" Mal stumbled over her words and laughed at herself before starting over. "Look, I'm not gonna apologize for Scott. He could've done a lot of things differently tonight, but that's between you and him. I just want you to know I was telling you the truth before. Scott _is_ a sweet, considerate guy. He's a little scatterbrained sometimes, but he'd never purposely upset anyone, especially you." Allison permitted the smallest of smiles, so Mal jovially continued, "And that's all I'm going to say about him, because I'd much rather talk about – "

" – The quintessential indie band?" Allison finished affably.

"And how freaking brilliant it is that you love them as much as I do!" Mal praised, but before she could say anything else, her phone vibrated again. She promptly remembered that Stiles was on werewolf guard duty and that she was supposed to be awaiting his call, so she snatched the phone out of her coat pocket and held a 'Sorry, gotta answer this' finger up at Allison. Mal turned around and pressed the device to her ear with a hushed but anxious, "What's going on?! How's Scott?"

"_When a person is trying to get in touch with you, the customary thing to do is to let them, Mal!_" Stiles hollered irately. "_I swear to God, if you were screening my calls – _"

" – No! No, I wasn't!" she winced, scolding herself for getting sidetracked. "Sorry, sorry, I'm here. What's happening?"

"_What's happening is shit hitting the fan. Scott's gone, most likely ingesting someone's pancreas as we speak, so now I'm driving around like a maniac trying to find him. He totally flipped out for no good – _" Stiles ceased his ranting, clearly reconsidering what he was about to say. "_Tell me you found Allison_," he requested shortly.

Mal lowered her voice even further, so as not to alert the girl in question. "Yeah. Yes. We're outside her house. She's totally fine, Derek drove her. Except – and I have no idea why – I think he told her he was Scott's friend because she acted like he was mine, too. It was tremendously creepy," she reported to Stiles, unnerved by the consequential silence on his end. "Oh god, what is it?"

"_Where is he? Is he still there?!_" Stiles cried sharply, and Mal could identify the sound of tires squealing in the background.

"No, he's gone…Hold on. Why do _you_ have a problem with him all of a sudden?" she demanded edgily.

"_I don't know what he wanted with Allison, but Derek Hale's the one who bit Scott,_" Stiles divulged grimly. "_He's _also_ a werewolf, and he murdered the girl from the woods._"

"What?!" Mal squawked, attracting Allison's attention.

"Is everything all right?" she inquired concernedly.

"_Ahhh, lie! Lie!_" Stiles urged, amid the racket of the Jeep's horn honking at whoever was blocking his path.

"Uh, yeah. It's Stiles. He...lost his keys so he had to hot-wire his car," Mal ad libbed. Brilliantly, according to Stiles.

"_Hah! __Hell yeah, I did!_" he cheered, temporarily forgetting about Scott and Derek. Mal pictured him pumping his fist in the air proudly, regardless of the reality that he barely knew the anatomy of a car engine, let alone how to control one with its wires. Mal figured that he was just savoring the fantasy.

"Whoa, that's totally awesome!" Allison proclaimed with an impish but surprised grin. Her first impression had been that Stiles, however likable, was kind of a dork.

"Sure, except the doofus found the keys on his dash five seconds later." Mal thought that seemed more realistic. "You're picking me up, right?" she said to Stiles, who was protesting under his breath vehemently.

"_I dunno_. _If I'm such a _doofus_, you probably shouldn't get into a car with me,_" he objected indignantly, confirming soon after, "_Yeah, I'm on the corner of Willow and Castle._"

"Good." Muffling her voice again, she promised him, "We're gonna find Scott. We'll stay out all night if we have to."

And they did.

* * *

When Stiles and Mal found him the next morning, Scott was limping along the road several miles from his house, half-naked and cradling his arm. His jeans, the same ones from the previous day, were stained and appeared to be damp.

_What the hell did he do?_ Mal pondered, bemused. "Oi! Wolf Man!" she called to him through the window of the Jeep.

Freezing and grateful, Scott clambered into the car and took Stiles's proffered jacket before describing to his companions the chaos of his night, eyelids fluttering in exhaustion. After he'd jumped out of his room, Scott had chased after Derek, wrestled with the other werewolf, and run from a gang of werewolf-shooting hunters (once Derek had pulled the arrow out of Scott's arm, of course).

"Right. Because you morphing into a beast straight out of European folklore _wasn't_ already enough," Mal moaned, flinging her head back after Scott showed her and Stiles the rapidly fading wound.

"You know what actually worries me the most?" he continued, slumping back in his seat dejectedly.

Running on zero hours of sleep, Stiles replied snippily, "If you say Allison, I'm gonna punch you in the head."

"Yeah, the answer better be that you're now a creature of the night," Mal chimed in, also tremendously sleep-deprived. She'd been working Stiles's radio all night, switching through most of the channels to find music that wouldn't spare either one of them a wink of sleep.

"She probably hates me now," Scott moaned, paying no heed to their comments.

"Ugh," Stiles scoffed, "I doubt that. Mal got to her in time."

Scott swung around to face her, appreciably more awake. "What did you say to her? What did she say to you?! Is she really pissed? Think she'll forgive me?"

Mal shook her head, exhausted and refusing to play the go-between. "Nope, no, leave me out of this. Like I told her, it's between you guys."

Scott pouted sullenly.

"Dude, she'll give you another shot. Mal's good at the whole 'talking to people' thing…But you might want to come up with a pretty amazing apology," Stiles advised, but then he appeared to be rethinking something. "Or, you know, you could just – tell her the truth and – revel in the awesomeness of the fact that you're a frickin' werewolf." Scott narrowed his eyes in response. "Okay, bad idea."

"I still can't believe it. Scott's a werewolf," Mal said blankly, her lack of rest having shrouded everything in a paradoxically dreamlike haze.

"Hey, we'll get through this," Stiles declared faithfully. He added to Scott, "Come on, if Mal and I have to, we'll chain you up ourselves on full moon nights and feed you live mice. I had a boa once. I could do it."

Mal guffawed in spite of her apprehension and rested a bracing hand on Scott's shoulder. "Or in other words, we've got your back, bro," she affirmed, shaking him supportively.

When Scott turned to look at his two favorite people in the world, he truly believed that everything would turn out okay.

But he was sadly mistaken.

* * *

**A/N: Would I be a douche for saying this is my favorite chapter so far? I've kind of been picturing the scene with the Arcade Fire song for a month now and I feel like it turned out okay, but I wanna know what you think! I really appreciate the reviews I've gotten thus far (SHOUT OUT to hello (?), BrandiMcallMikelson and Lmv16. You three lit a fire under my ass, so thank you!) I would love to hear more from any readers out there. How do you feel about Mal and the way the canon characters have been portrayed? That type of thing is really important to me when I write, so any feedback would be phenomenal. Thanks beauties! You all make me as happy as Arcade Fire makes Mallory.**


	6. Chapter 5

The author's note at the end of the chapter has some important info about story links and future updates. Do read it if you can, darlings. Also, reviews are welcomed and encouraged. *Wink, wink.*

* * *

**Chapter 5**

_And we're forever unfulfilled  
Can't think why  
Like a search for murder clues  
In dead man's eyes_

"_You know something, Mal? I used to think people were gigantic assholes in high school, but it turns out some of them actually get even worse once they're out,_" Theo complained vaguely over the phone the following Monday, skipping over any 'Hello' or 'How are you?' and getting right to his point. "_Take Derek Hale, for example. I have a very strong feeling his basement's filled to capacity with dead bodies._"

"Wha – dead bodies _– _Derek? You saw Derek?! Where the hell have you been all weekend?!" she nearly shrieked, taking his joke quite seriously and wishing her brother was with her in the high school, so she could throttle him. "I left you about twenty voicemails!"

"_Whoa, dude. Chill. I was with Mom. She's been working since Friday – all alone – and I felt bad for her. Figured she'd appreciate the company, so we've been camped out in her office_," he explained, continuing with a relaxed laugh, "_You have no idea how glad I am that I didn't have the patience for law school. Mom might be going insane. I swear I've never seen anyone pull out so much hair."_

"Don't tell me to chill, Theo, I hate it when guys do that to girls!" Mal screeched, stomping down the relatively empty corridor. Which was convenient because with even one look at her manic expression, any teacher would have sent her straight to the guidance counselor's office. "Look, that _asshole_ _buddy_ of yours is – he's being interrogated for chopping a girl in half. Were you at all aware of that?" she questioned shrilly. She knew she obviously couldn't tell him that Derek was a werewolf, so she settled for a half-truth, despite how isolating it felt being unable to talk to her brother with absolute honesty.

"_Mal, that's __– __did the Sheriff tell you Derek's guilty? Because if it didn't come straight from him, then you're making an outrageous accusation...I know Derek,_" Theo debated, exhaling impatiently. He'd heard the rumors about his former friend being a suspect but had chosen not to pay them any attention out of respect for his privacy.

Mal bit the inside of her cheek, racking her brains for the best way, the right words, to convince him. "You _used to_ know Derek," she pointed out as somewhat of a last resort.

"_Yeah, okay. So what? He might be rude and extremely difficult to have a civil conversation with, but that doesn't exactly make him a killer_," Theo rationalized, and if it were possible to hear someone rolling his eyes, Mal would distinctly have heard her brother. "_He's totally harmless, Mal. I was just exaggerating before, 'cause I was a little ticked off._"

"When did you see him? What did he say to you?" Mal asked in a hard tone of voice as she headed toward the boy's locker room. When she'd arrived at Scott and Stiles's afternoon lacrosse practice fifteen minutes late and they weren't there, Coach Finstock had irritably informed her that Scott was handling first line worse than his dead grandmother would have and that after he'd effectively disabled Jackson by smashing into him, he and "his twitchy little friend" had run off the field. Praying that it wasn't a werewolf issue, she'd gone in search of them.

"_I saw Derek at the hardware store near mom's office this morning_," Theo conveyed to her with an audible grunt. "_I was picking up some light bulbs for the house, and when I said hey, he didn't even – Derek didn't remember me...Or maybe he was just acting like he didn't, since he knew I was in – _" He cut himself off and mumbled, "_Well, whatever. It's irrelevant now._"

Mal let out a silent breath, relieved that Derek was at least leaving her brother alone. But for whatever reason, Theo seemed to be deeply upset about this, so she said in what she hoped was a comforting manner, "Theo, you and I both know some people change for the worse. That's how the world works."

"_Oh god,_ _Mal,_" he laughed disparagingly, "_Please don't turn this into a diatribe against Dad_. _I haven't had nearly enough sleep to put up with your well-established brand of condescension._"

"I'm only looking out for you," she huffed indignantly. "We haven't always trusted the right people, and now you have two cases in point, so do me a favor, all right? Stay away from Derek. At least until the police determine that he's innocent," she begged, urgency coloring her voice. "Although that's a _huge_ 'if'."

"_You're more of a mom than Mom is sometimes. You know that, right?_" he teased facetiously, clearly not appreciating the gravity of the situation, how much danger he'd been in just by trying to talk to Derek.

"Theo, I'm serious. Derek's – he's a bad guy, okay? And it's not some outrageous accusation. He literally lied to a girl to get her into a car with him," she divulged judiciously, walking down the stairs to the school's basement. "He's a creep."

"_What? No, he didn't. That's – that's ridiculous._"

"Quit defending him! He's not a good person!" she shouted in the seclusion of the stairwell, clenching her jaw. "I went to a party Friday night, and Scott was on a date with this girl he likes, but he…was coming down with something, so he kind of bolted and left her there. She's new to town, so she didn't know any better, but Derek ambushed her and explicitly said he was our friend so he could give her a ride home. Which is already disturbing enough without him being a murder suspect, since he's a twenty-four-year-old man who has no business lurking around teenage girls' houses! But he _is _a potential murder suspect, so I had to wait at her place just to make sure she was even coming back."

There was a strained silence on Theo's end. For a second, Mal thought he might've hung up the phone, but before too long, he murmured in surrender, "_Okay, have it your way. I'll be gone in about a week, but I won't try to contact him anymore."_

"It's not _my_ way. It's just good sense, Theo. And I – " Mal stopped short at the bizarre – and honestly, rather frightening – sight that confronted her when she rounded the corner. Still decked out in his lacrosse gear, Stiles was hugging a fire extinguisher with a wild expression on his face, a faint sheen of sweat above his upper lip. He didn't notice Mal, instead peeking over his shoulder into the locker room and then ducking inside to deal with whatever he'd been hiding from. " – I gotta go. I'll see you at home," Mal finished hastily, hanging up the phone before Theo could get a word in and sprinting to the doorway of the boys' locker room.

Stiles had cast the extinguisher aside and torn the lacrosse gloves from his hands, a weary look replacing his previously terrified one. Scott was slumped on a bench and drenched in sweat, his fingers buried in his damp hair.

"What the hell is going on?!" Mal yelled, gripping the doorframe with one hand and the back of Stiles's jersey with the other.

He looked back at her and caught her arm, giving it a calming squeeze. "It's okay. We're fine now. Scott started turning during practice, but I hauled him out of there before he could seriously maim Jackson – and then, uh, sprayed him with the fire extinguisher before he could _kill_ me," he announced, staring pointedly at the werewolf.

"You wolfed out on the field?! Did anyone see you?" Mal exclaimed, leaning around Stiles to frown at Scott. "Oh God, did _Jackson_?"

"No, of course not! He's clueless as always," Stiles answered reassuringly. Mal's shoulders sank in relief as he crouched down beside Scott. "But Scott, listen to me, it's like I told you before. It's the anger. It's your pulse rising. It's a trigger."

"But that's lacrosse. It's a pretty violent game, if you hadn't noticed," Scott argued, glancing distressfully between Mal and Stiles.

"Well, it's gonna be a lot more violent if you end up killing someone on the field," Stiles said sardonically.

"This can't happen again," Mal interjected, kneeling next to Stiles as he nodded fervently. "If someone had seen you…Look, I know it's the first game of the season, but – "

" – You can't play Saturday. You're gonna have to get out of the game," Stiles cut in.

"But I'm first line," Scott mumbled dismally.

"Not anymore."

* * *

At around 9 o'clock that night, Mal was studying for a Spanish quiz and listening to _Gorillaz _when she received a text from Scott. _Get on Skype. Stiles has an update on Jackson_.

Stiles had told her how worked up Scott had gotten thinking about Allison's dad, who was, _awesomely _enough, the chief werewolf hunter from the night of the full moon. Unnerved by the hunters and fed up with Jackson's attempts at making him look like an idiot, Scott had slammed into the captain of the lacrosse team and injured his shoulder. "I just wish I could've stayed on the field long enough to watch Jackson throwing his inevitable tantrum," Stiles had said wistfully.

Mal turned her music off, signed into her Skype account, and waited for Stiles to set up a three-way call. Which he did in a very characteristically Stiles way, shooting a light-up Nerf gun at his computer screen with a gigantic grin. "Ahhh right in the eye!" she cried, covering her face with her hands and then peeking through her fingers at him. Stiles beamed at her appreciatively.

Scott rolled his eyes at his friends, thoroughly exhausted. "What'd you find out?"

"Well, it's bad. Jackson's got a separated shoulder," Stiles informed them, putting the toy down.

"Because of me?" Scott inquired, almost sounding contrite. He'd put the douchebag captain of the lacrosse team in the hospital, but he definitely didn't feel good about it.

"Because he's a tool," Stiles countered emphatically.

"Yeah, serves him right for trying to get you benched," Mal aggressively joined in. "He's actually kinda had it coming for years."

Scott ignored her and furrowed his eyebrows. "But is he gonna play?"

"Well, they don't know yet. Now they're just counting on you for Saturday," Stiles said.

Scott shut his eyes and rolled his head forward, convinced that he was never going to catch a break. Sure, Allison had forgiven him, and that was wonderful. But on top of her werewolf-exterminating father, he now had to face up to the fact that he'd hurt someone and most likely wouldn't be able to play lacrosse anymore without a repeat of that afternoon.

Before Scott could express his misery, however, Stiles leaned in toward his webcam, peering mysteriously at something. The other two copied him, wondering what had diverted his focus, and then at the same time, they asked, "What?"

Stiles's eyes widened with terror, and he began typing on his keyboard, evidently to be discreet. The words '_It looks like'_ popped up on the screen, followed by the annoying rainbow wheel indicative of a slow internet connection.

Mal smacked her frozen computer and cursed, and only after an agonizing ten seconds could she distinguish the silhouette of a man lurking ominously in Scott's doorway.

She stiffened as Scott asked, "It looks like what?"

"Behind you," Mal whispered, moving her lips as little as possible.

"Huh?" Scott uttered stupidly, right as the irritating wheel disappeared and '_Someone's behind you_' came up on the monitor. The shadowed man suddenly grabbed Scott and their end went black, leaving Stiles and Mal to stare at each other in horror.

"Where'd he go?! Was that _Derek_?" she shrieked, futilely clicking around her screen to fix their connection with Scott and then leaping up out of her desk chair when nothing worked.

"Oh God. Oh no. Shit shit shit!" Stiles swore, whimpering slightly while he shook his monitor in vain. "Crap, what do we do? What do we do?!"

"Stiles, I don't know! He's – What _can_ we do?" Mal snapped back before remembering that Scott's mom didn't have the night shift at the hospital. "Actually, what can _Derek_ do? He wouldn't try to hurt Scott while Mrs. McCall's in the house, right?"

"He's a savage, supernatural monster, Mal! He doesn't have those kinds of boundaries!" Stiles snarled, gesticulating wildly.

Mal closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, pinching the bridge of her nose to concentrate. "Okay. Let's…wait five minutes. If he doesn't call, we'll – we'll tell your dad. We'll tell him everything," she pledged. Her posture was wooden when she sat back down again. She was fully aware of how absurd it would be to wait five minutes if Scott's life was being threatened, but she didn't know what else to do, so she stayed as she was.

The next five minutes were the longest of their lives. Mal could tell by the way Stiles was moving that he was nervously jiggling his foot. His eyes also flashed around his room, refusing to settle on any one thing for too long, and then he started gnawing on the inside of his cheek. Mal didn't point any of this out; she knew it was how he dealt best with scary situations. And anyway, she'd be a hypocrite for doing so since she was biting her nails down to their stubs.

Her cell phone buzzed when she was down to her fourth fingernail. She whisked it off of the desk and hollered into the microphone, "Scott, is that you?! What happened?!" Stiles swiveled in his chair, eagerly awaiting news, so Mal put Scott on speakerphone.

"Derek Hale threw me at my own wall and barked death threats at me. Said he'd kill me if I try to play on Saturday," the hapless boy grumbled through gritted teeth. "What am I supposed to do? The team's depending on me."

"You're joking, right?" Mal asked acerbically, resisting the urge to shout at him. At the silence on Scott's end, she commented offhandedly, "Call me biased, but I sorta feel like your life is a tad more valuable than a high school lacrosse game."

Stiles bobbed his head approvingly, but since Scott couldn't see him, he added, "Tell Coach tomorrow. You'll have to put him at the top of the list of lunatics that wanna murder you, but better him than that hairy – werewolf – _psycho_."

Mal rolled her eyes while Scott emitted a low groan and fell back on his bed. "It was Jackson this time, and given that you didn't kill him, I'm not too concerned," she said dismissively, and Stiles snorted. "But what if it'd been Stiles? What if you wolf out again, and he gets hurt?"

"I didn't do that on purpose, Mal!" Scott asserted angrily, referring to what had occurred in the locker room earlier.

"Scott, I know. I know you couldn't control it then, I'm not blaming you," she assured him. "Still, even Jackson deserves a chance at whatever pathetic life we all know he's gonna have after high school. If not playing lacrosse can protect people – Stiles or Allison or anyone really – it's worth it."

Scott sighed, feeling quite morose. _So much for a fresh start._

* * *

"So I'm pretty sure Coach thinks I'm gay. And his brother did meth for a while, apparently. But it's all good, because he has veneers now," Scott began right before third period, leaning against the wall next to Mal with his arms folded while she crammed an armful of books and a paper bag lunch into her locker. He continued grouchily, "Oh, and I'm off first line if I don't play the game."

Mal squinted at him around her locker door as an orange and three of her textbooks tumbled noisily onto the floor. "Whoa, okay. That is a _lot_ of information to toss at a girl who can hardly catch her own shit," she replied, staring down at her belongings.

Scott helped her pick up her things and once again stuff them into her locker. "I was just in his office. I told him – _several _times – that I can't play tomorrow night, that I'm having personal issues. And he started going off about drugs and homosexuality," he clarified as Mal slammed her door shut and hoisted her backpack onto her shoulders. "Basically, he's gonna bench me. Again."

Mal's head lolled back. "Man, you never catch a break, do you?" she mumbled. "I figured he'd sideline you for a game or two, not the whole freakin' season."

Scott scowled at his sneakers. "Yup, well…damned if I do, _really_ damned if I don't, I guess."

Mal kept silent for a moment but then poked his arm. "Hey, we'll work it out. Between you, me, and Stiles, I'm sure each of our two-thirds of a brain can come up with some sort of viable solution," she quipped, giving him a wink.

"If you say so," he snorted, glimpsing her sly smile from the corner of his eye and then abruptly remembering something he'd forgotten to do before. With a faint smirk, he said, "Oh, yeah. I never thanked you for talking to Allison last Friday. She said you spoke very _highly_ of me, and it's part of the reason she wants to give me a second chance."

Mal quirked an eyebrow wickedly. "I have never once 'spoken _highly_ of you'. In fact, I distinctly remember warning her to steer clear of the colossal idiot who showed up at my birthday party in his underwear four years ago," she mocked.

Scott sprang off the wall, positively alarmed. "You didn't. Please tell me you didn't. You were the one who just _had _to have a pool party at eight am on a Saturday! I'd barely even woken up! And I swear I left my house with a swimsuit on, Mal!"

After letting him fret for a few seconds and sniggering at his obvious discomfort, Mal answered, "Have I ever struck you as the sort of person who'd humiliate you so cruelly in front of the girl you have a crush on? Besides, you just said she _wants_ to give you a second chance."

Scott offered her a vacant stare, unamusedly picking food from his teeth. Mal tousled his mop of hair as she always did when he wouldn't banter with her, and he swatted her hand away, leading them toward the Math and Science wing where both of their next classes were. "Ugh, you make it _so hard_ to say 'Thank you'," he whined. "But whatever, I owe you big-time."

"Nah, that one was on the house," Mal said with a grin. "Although I can't imagine that I would object if you decided to name one of your stunning, tan, curly-haired babies after me. 'Mallory McCall' has a certain appeal to it, _I _think."

" 'Mallory McCall'?" Allison called to them merrily as she descended a nearby flight of stairs. She was dressed in a pair of skinny jeans and a long and very flattering tank top, looking as gorgeous as the other two teenagers were quickly becoming accustomed to. "Are you two getting married?" she teased with a brilliant smile.

Mal and Scott guffawed, and it was the most natural thing in the world to them. "Never in a million years. That'd be, like, incestuous," he answered, once his laughter had subsided. The very idea was ludicrous.

"I would be offended if I weren't so proud of your expanding vocabulary," Mal remarked jokily, nudging his arm. She explained to Allison, "I was just telling him it'd be super cool if he named one of his kids after me."

Allison squinted at her curiously, but before Scott could step in to prevent what would've been a very weird discussion between the two girls, his phone went off. He anxiously skimmed over the message from his mom notifying him she'd be at the game and flashed a panicky glance at Mal.

"Anything wrong?" Allison asked kindly.

But Scott didn't want to lose his cool with the beautiful brunette standing right there, gazing at him in a way that was so electrifying, Mal might as well have been a fly. "No, no. It's just, uh, my mom. She's nothing," he said in somewhat of a trance. When Allison knit her eyebrows, he realized how the statement had come across and backpedaled. "I mean it's nothing. Uh, nothing's wrong when you're around."

Mal averted her eyes and cringed; Scott's charm bordered on nauseating sometimes. He wasn't unctuous or sleazy, just really, _really_ corny, and she was beginning to understand why Stiles had taken to rolling his eyes whenever their infatuated friend mentioned Allison.

The new girl beamed at him, however, clearly finding it adorable. "I like the sound of that," she laughed.

"Huh, don't we all?" Mal interrupted awkwardly, wanting to leave. She knew she was intruding on their conversation, but she'd already determined that it would be socially unacceptable for her to attempt subtly backing away from them. So this was her fallback. "Unfortunately, I've gotta get to Psych – "

" – Oh, I have to run to French class, but I wanted Scott to know that I'm coming to see him play tomorrow," Allison stated, oblivious to his escalating stress over the game.

"You are?" Scott double-checked, praying he'd misheard her.

"And we're all going out afterwards. You, me, Lydia, Jackson. It's gonna be great," Allison carried on, as if she hadn't been interrupted. She batted her eyelashes winningly at Mal and said, "I wanted to let _you _know it's a group – thing, so you and Stiles should definitely come, too. If the vein in your forehead can handle it."

Mal pursed her lips. "Yeah, do you _have_ a year's worth of Valium? Because 'under the influence of anxiety medication' is the only way I could – Hang on." She paused mid-sentence and then dubiously repeated, " 'Group – thing'? What d'you mean, 'group – thing'?"

"I meant…'group hangout-type-thing'," she claimed, nervously biting her lip as if she were hiding something. (Scott watched her mouth closely as she did this.)

"Right," Mal conceded reluctantly, narrowing her eyes. "Okay, weirdo. I'm still gonna pass, but thanks."

"Oh, I'm not taking 'No' for an answer," Allison countered adamantly, but she was running late now, so she said to Scott, "Uh, save me a seat at lunch. I gotta go." And with one last smile at him and Mal, she rushed off to class.

"God," he moaned a couple of seconds later, his deer-in-headlights expression diminishing only a little.

"Yeah, this is the pits," Mal mumbled on his behalf, wondering what the odds were that he'd live through the weekend. Any way she sliced it, someone would want Scott's head on a platter by the end of Saturday night. Except now, that list of people included Lydia Martin. If he didn't play, she'd most likely murder him with her bare hands. If he risked everything to stay on first line, Derek would.

Mal couldn't tell which was worse.

* * *

An hour and ten minutes later, Stiles was restlessly shuffling his feet by the door to Mal's Psych class, his thumbs wedged under his backpack straps and his fingers drumming out a steady rhythm as he searched for her among the mass of students. He didn't typically wait for her between periods, but there was something important he wanted to do, and he needed her and Scott to do it.

"Hey, can I borrow a pencil?" Mal requested as she strolled out of the room, the very writing utensil she sought tucked securely behind her left ear.

"Yeah, here," Stiles chuckled amiably, removing the pencil and handing it to Mal before casually pushing back the strands of her hair that had fallen with it. Her body froze out of shock and of its own accord; no one ever touched Mal's hair except her. So, taken aback as she was, she stared at Stiles for five whole seconds, and only then did it register with him what he'd done. "Uh, sorry. Sorry!" he apologized with wide eyes. "I didn't mean to – your pencil was right there. You couldn't see it, so I just thought – but then I shouldn't have – I didn't have to – I don't know why I did that, s – sorry."

"No, it's – it's cool. Really," she promptly assured him, her cheeks feeling unexpectedly warm and her smile, abnormally self-conscious. She blinked a couple of times in order to pull herself together, whilst simultaneously trying to maintain whatever composure Stiles might've thought she still had. Mal didn't understand why she was reacting this way or why she felt like she needed him to believe that she was completely fine or even why she _wasn't_ completely fine, but she understood that she couldn't simply stand there like an idiot, so she continued in a distracted tone of voice, "I can be a…total space case sometimes. But you already knew that. What – um – what else were you gonna do?"

Stiles's laugh was high-pitched and uneasy, as if he'd just done something criminal. "Right. Yes. Exactly. You should…keep better track of your stuff." He dragged his foot backward against the floor and then gave it a light kick, staring fixedly at the tiles.

"Uh, don't you have Study Hall right now?" Mal asked to change the subject. She couldn't make sense of what had just happened, but all she knew was that she didn't really care to.

"Huh? Oh!" he exclaimed, all remnants of the discomfort in his expression vanishing as he remembered why he'd been waiting for Mal in the first place. "We have to find Scott, I need his super senses. My dad's in the principal's office, and I've _gotta _know why," he explained, tugging her by the arm.

Mal lifted an eyebrow but let him drag her through the hallway like a rag doll. The atmosphere between them relaxed again, the air becoming more breathable, and she felt perfectly satisfied writing their awkward – for whatever reason – moment off as a passing occurrence. "Finally cursed Harris out, did ya?" she joked with a snicker.

"No, wiseass, I didn't. With all the supernatural insanity that's taking over our lives, I refuse to die at the hands of a _human_. That's too much irony for me."

"Hah!" Mal snorted viciously. Stiles dropped her arm, and she fell into step with him. "Harris isn't human. He's The Devil masquerading as a Chemistry teacher. I have yet to figure out how he hides the horns, or what he uses as a portal back to hell, but – "

" – Why do you hate him so much?" Stiles interrupted with a roll of his eyes. "He didn't make _you_ clap erasers for three days after sneezing _once_ during class."

"What do you mean 'why'?" she said roughly. "You just said it, he's a bully. He's always picking on you, and it pisses me off. At least Whittemore takes a break every now and then to torture other people."

Mal had received a handful of detentions during her time with Mr. Harris, all of them earned for losing self-control and snapping at him when he took it too far with Stiles. Anytime he insulted her friend's intelligence – "I'd like to have your IQ tested, Mr. Stilinski, and I'm almost sorry to inform you that I don't mean it in a complimentary way." – Mal would bite back an equally caustic but also inappropriate comment. ("If I were afraid he was smarter than me, I'd probably be curious to know a student's IQ, too, Mr. Harris.") It drove Elaine nuts how often her daughter had landed herself in trouble, but Mal didn't care; anyone who took a crack at Stiles or Scott deserved it.

Stiles squinted at her, the traces of a smug smile playing at his lips. "Huh, I think that's the most positive thing you've ever said about Jackson. Should I take you to the nurse? You could be running a fever."

"Shut up," she mumbled, batting his hand away when he tried to feel her forehead.

"Hey, come here," he beckoned to Scott when they spotted him by his locker. The Sheriff was discussing something with the principal across the hall, so Stiles yanked both of his friends to the closest corner to spy on his dad.

"What?" Scott demanded grumpily.

"Come here. Tell me what they're saying," Stiles ordered in hushed tones. All three of them peeked at the Sheriff, Stiles leaning on Mal and Mal leaning on Scott in what was maybe the least inconspicuous position they could've assumed. Nearly everyone who passed by glanced at them suspiciously.

"Can you hear the Sheriff?" Mal prodded. "Is this about the girl?"

Scott shushed her, intently focusing his super hearing on the man in question while Stiles tapped his fingers on Mal's shoulders impatiently.

"Curfew because of the body," Scott passed on to his companions.

"Unbelievable," Stiles complained heatedly, standing upright again. A blonde girl about their age was eyeing them with interest, so Mal elbowed him, and he lowered his voice. "My dad's out looking for a rabid animal, while the jerk-off who actually killed the girl is just hangin' out, doing whatever he wants."

"Well, you can't exactly tell your dad the truth about Derek," Scott argued realistically.

"It doesn't have to be the whole truth," Mal interjected, looking elsewhere as she pondered something. "Can't we just tell the Sheriff that Derek essentially kidnapped Allison? That oughta land the son of a bitch at least three years in jail."

"That's not enough!" Stiles cried vehemently. After a moment's thought and with a very determined expression, he declared, "We can't tell my dad about you and Derek, but I can do something."

"Like what?" the other two chorused, Mal with apprehension and Scott with an almost tired acceptance.

"Find the other half of the body," Stiles proposed, pulling away before anyone could protest.

"Are you kidding?" Scott called after him uselessly, close to growling as he whirled around to Mal. "Please talk some sense into him. He's being rash again." She opened her mouth to respond but couldn't, finding herself in sincere agreement with Stiles for once. "You think this is a good idea!" Scott exclaimed accusingly, heaving an exasperated sigh and twisting away from her.

His attention shifted further down the hall to Allison, who was shaking hands with a burly lacrosse player Lydia was introducing her to.

"And the crap fest continues," Mal muttered. Shoving a befuddled Scott in Allison's direction, she said graciously, "Go rescue the poor girl. I'll catch up with you later." Lydia scrutinized Scott with disdain, and Mal grit her teeth, forcing herself to let it go for once, as she turned and ran in the other direction.

"Stiles, wait up!" she hailed him, slowing to a jog to keep up with his long, purposeful strides once she'd reached him.

"Nothing you say is going to convince me not to do this," he started defensively.

"Fine by me, we've got planning to do," she stated, quite unfazed. "I know I've been ragging on you a lot lately, but I wanna help this time."

Stiles stopped short, wheeling around to skeptically ask, "Is _that _so?"

"Hey, whatever it takes to put that 'hairy werewolf psycho' in jail," she proclaimed in an affectedly masculine register, permitting the smallest smile when Stiles snorted at her impression of him. She was thinking of her brother when she added solemnly, "I mean it, though. We can't let him hurt anyone else."

Stiles gawked at her. "Wow. You're agreeing with me – and it didn't take hours of sweet-talking. Is this the apocalypse? Is the world ending two years early? Hang on. Are you a zombie? Ooh, have you been possessed by a demon, à la 'The Exorcist'? Mal, you in there?"

When he tapped on her temple, she put him in a headlock and rubbed her knuckles against the top of his head. "Work on your analogies, Stiles. They really are faulty."

* * *

A week ago, Mal would never have believed that she'd be skulking about Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital, or more specifically, the morgue in its basement. Then again, she'd never have believed that Scott would soon be capable of turning into a fanged creature during every full moon. Life as the friend of a superhuman 10th grader was turning out to be full of unpleasant surprises.

After school that day, Stiles and Mal met up with Scott at his place, and he told them that he'd found something terrible at the Hale house. When he spoke to Allison earlier, he'd learned that the jacket she'd worn at Lydia's party had been returned to her, and he was convinced that Derek had broken into her locker as part of some plan of his to hurt the werewolf hunter's daughter. Thoroughly outraged, Scott had gone over to Derek's house to yell at him to leave her out of everything, and while on his property, the young werewolf's enhanced senses were able to pick up on something buried in the yard. His hypothesis was that it was the other half of the dead girl, and now he and his two best friends were hell-bent on confirming it, albeit for various reasons.

Scott wanted to protect Allison and be able to play lacrosse again; Stiles loved detective work and was secretly beginning to feel the urge to prove himself now that one of his best friends was a werewolf; and Mal was resolved to keep anyone she could from harm, especially Theo. A part of her, however latent, was also drawn to the idea of examining a mutilated corpse, but of course, she wasn't actually aware of this yet.

As Stiles parked the Jeep in front of the hospital, Mal asked shortly, "So what? You're just gonna march right in, Scott? No big deal?"

"Pretty much," he responded unconcernedly, having more pressing things to consider. "All the doctors have seen me around before."

"And if he has to, he can keep a low profile. Significant upgrade in aural faculties, remember?" Stiles wisecracked, jumping out of the car. Once inside the hospital, he pointed at a sign that indicated where the morgue was and said, "Hey."

Scott straightened out his hoodie, summoning his courage.

In that moment, Mal made a split-second decision and held him back to firmly announce, "I'm going with you."

"Wh – No, you're not. You're staying here with me," Stiles balked at her. Pointing at himself and then at her, he said forcefully, "Tim Drake, Stephanie Brown. If I'm a sidekick, so are you."

Mal snorted. "I'd prefer it if you wouldn't compare me to the most inept and least recognized Robin in existence, just because she was the only canonical female. I mean, that's just unfair. Stephanie Brown started a gang war in Gotham City, and I'm still not entirely sure Batman wanted her around for any other reason than to get Tim back." Scott glowered at her, so she said, "But that doesn't matter right now…I should go with him. He could use a non-werewolf perspective."

"Dude, come on!" Stiles cried petulantly, demanding cooperation from Scott but receiving none.

"Um, I sorta think it's a good idea. We have to give your dad something solid."

"Then why can't _I _go? I'm totally useless out here," Stiles whined, flailing his arms.

"Because Mal's quieter than you are…and also not hopped up on Adderall at the moment," Scott justified, staring deliberately at Stiles. He'd taken several of his ADHD pills that afternoon. "You can be the lookout. If anyone's coming, text one of us."

"Ugh, all right. Next time, though, _I'm_ going into the morgue with you. Got it?"

"There isn't gonna be a 'next time', Stiles!" Scott hissed, steering Mal toward the swinging door.

"You guys are the worst," Stiles muttered, but then he grudgingly bid them good luck.

As expected, the room of corpses was chilly and dark and uninvitingly quiet. Scott breathed heavily with unease, but Mal was remarkably calm despite the twenty or so dead people lying less than a stone's throw away within their assigned compartments in the wall. The two kids scanned the labels stuck to each mortuary cold chamber and settled on the one marked, 'Jane Doe, Partial'. But Scott's breathing became panting as he opened the door and drew the sliding table out, so Mal gave his shoulder a supportive squeeze. "You're okay," she comforted from beside him.

"Why isn't this creeping you out?" Scott questioned, thrown by her striking composure. Nodding at the white sheet concealing Jane Doe, he said bluntly, "A girl's legs are under this thing. Unattached to the rest of her body like they're supposed to be."

"I don't know," Mal answered, chewing on her lip. Her hands were still, and her heartbeat was slow, but she honestly couldn't say why she wasn't the slightest bit on edge. "Maybe I'm just…deeply in denial."

"Sure," Scott granted uncertainly, contemplating the least scarring approach to inspecting the set of legs beneath his trembling hands.

"Here, let me," Mal offered, noticing his tension and gently nudging him to the side. She clutched the sheet corners and unveiled the legs all at once, taking care not to bare too much.

Scott glanced at the nasty bites along the girl's calves and shins and skimmed the large tag with her basic information before turning away, repulsed but angry. He finally had tangible proof that Derek Hale was a homicidal maniac who deserved to rot in jail, and he felt more motivated now to set things right.

Mal, on the other hand, was riveted to her spot by the table. She gazed down at the woman's lower half pensively, her eyes glazing over. For the second time since she'd known about her, thoughts regarding the dead girl's afterlife advanced to the forefront of her mind and proceeded to run on a loop in her head. _Tell me__ you've found peace where you are. Tell me, tell me, tell me._

Scott swung around right in time to prevent Mal's fingers from grazing skin, an involuntary reaction on her part. "What the hell are you doing?!" he whisper-shouted, lightly slapping her wrist. But it didn't snap Mal out of her trance, instead intensifying her longing for the answers she intuitively knew were within reach. Her instincts were screaming at her to move her hand just a few inches south, that she'd be able to divine something significant through touch. So she did.

The vacant look in Mal's eyes disconcerted Scott, but he didn't discourage her this time, instead watching her warily and readying himself to pull her out of there in the event that someone discovered the two trespassers.

The instant her fingertips met the puncture marks, Mal's surroundings swirled around her, transforming into a different time and place entirely.

* * *

_Mallory was standing in the middle of a forest. Beacon Hills Preserve, in fact. Trees surrounded her for as far as she could see into the night, but this wasn't very much. __It must've been midnight. The sky was a blackish gray, darkened even further by an extensive mass of clouds, and the hidden waxing moon lit the forest floor poorly. Rain was falling in torrents, while thunder rumbled a few miles away. _

_She couldn't move, rooted to the earth by some invisible force. She wondered if it was gravity, the stronger kind found on planets like Jupiter, that was holding her feet to the ground, but this was still Beacon Hills, still California, still Earth. Or it appeared to be, at least, so that couldn't have been the right answer. She might've tried to fight whatever power it was that had robbed her of movement, but as she continued peering out into the darkness, she noticed a wolf with shiny sable fur and glowing red eyes standing just a few feet away. _

_Mallory went rigid, sifting through the confusion in her brain for something she was sure she'd read about once in school, instructions about what to do during a wolf encounter. But she soon realized that she wouldn't need them; the magnificent and unnerving creature didn't seem to have noticed her. I__nstead, t__he wolf began patrolling the area, winding her way through the patch of trees with the utmost poise. She was clearly anticipating something – or maybe someone. _

_She howled a minute later, perhaps for her pack. The sound was intoxicating, one that echoed for a moment before floating away into the night. It sent a thrill of excitement through Mallory, and she savored it before a__nother howl sounded from somewhere within the preserve, not too far off. The coal-black animal bared her teeth, in what Mallory presumed was a grin, and settled down by a tall tree, resting on her hind legs._

_Mallory guessed that this was going to be their meeting place, that perhaps they wanted to hunt together, but the wolf's pack mate would be too late for what came next._

_A large and well-built man crept out from behind a thick tree a couple of yards back, his face cloaked in a bizarre haze incongruous with the rest of the darkness. This haze followed him as he inched away from his hiding spot, masking his features maddeningly. It looked like black smoke, the type created by fire, except there was no fire to be seen anywhere. Mallory blinked several times and even screwed up her eyes trying to get a decent glimpse of his face, but the cloud of smoke remained in its position in front of him. She only realized that he was a werewolf preparing to strike when the moon showed itself in a patch of clear sky for a fleeting second and the light shined on a set of claws elevated above his head. _

_Suddenly and much to Mallory's relief, however, he let his hand drop by his side, apparently having changed his mind. That is, until he squatted on the ground and tensed his body to spring at the unsuspecting wolf not five yards away._

_Mallory's attempts to charge at him were worthless, as she still couldn't move. While the menacing man continued to steel himself, she struggled and struggled against the confining sensation of her immobility, feeling the unbearable heaviness of her limbs and the strain in her muscles as she did so. Eventually acknowledging the futility of these efforts, she opened her mouth to warn the wolf or even scare her to safety, but she found herself similarly incapable of uttering a single noise. Everything she tried was hopeless. No one could see her, no one could hear her._

_Coming to terms with this, Mallory shut her eyes, understanding that the man had lunged at the wolf and torn his claws through her fur and sinew when the animal let out a single, piercing yowl._

* * *

"Mal, are you okay?!" Scott called frantically from beside her, pushing the rolling table back into the wall and slamming the door shut before fiercely shaking his best friend's shoulders. "Mal? Mal?!"

Her eyes flew open, pupils darting around uncontrollably, and she jerked away from Scott, thinking she was still back in the woods with the vicious werewolf. She hugged herself protectively, blinking several times to regain her senses. "Wh – what happened?" she stammered softly, finally recognizing Scott and her surroundings. She relaxed only marginally, however.

Scott gaped at her fearfully. "You…blacked out for a minute."

Mal stayed motionless, but this time, of her own volition.

"Are you all right?" Scott asked, studying her closely. "You're sweating a little, and I can hear your heart racing."

She swiped the back of her hand against her forehead, which was, indeed, moist with perspiration. "Yeah. Yes, I'm…good."

But she wasn't. She was the complete opposite of "good".

"D'you…know what that was?" Scott continued concernedly, with a cautiousness that made him sound like he was talking to a lost and frightened child.

Overwhelmed and almost as a reflex, Mal swallowed. Hard. "Uh, n – no, I d – I don't," she stuttered, hesitant to describe to him whatever the hell it was she'd just seen. She hadn't the faintest idea herself but was refusing to accept it as merely the traumatic aftereffect of viewing a dead body so up close. Even though she was still very much shaken.

Scott peered at her knowingly but didn't hound her, trusting that she'd fill him in after she'd gathered her bearings. "Okay, let's just go then. I've seen enough," he said disgustedly, conducting her out of the morgue and away from the corpses.

But Mal still felt like she was back in the room with them, and she exhaled under the fresh weight of crushing sadness. It was almost like someone had hollowed out her chest and swapped her heart with a cement brick. She couldn't understand why she was reacting like this, so out of place for someone who hadn't actually known the black wolf. Why did she care so much? Why had she seen those moments before its death? More importantly, how had she seen them?

Mal felt overcome with anguish and malaise but forced herself, nevertheless, to defer her mounting sense of foreboding to a later time. She needed stay focused on the higher-priority problem: Derek Hale.

Out in the waiting room, Stiles was glaring at Jackson and Lydia, who were kissing noisily. Mal remembered Jackson bitching about having to go to the hospital that morning during Chemistry, and she was now regarding the couple with irritation as well. Although this was mostly due to the enervating incident in the morgue. She really didn't have the patience for this, too.

Neither did Scott, for that matter, so he ripped the menstruation pamphlet Stiles was pretending to read out of his hands.

"Holy God!" the jumpy boy exclaimed in response.

"You _have_ to stop doing this to yourself, Stiles," Mal pleaded tiredly, slipping her hands into the pockets of her red jeans. "It's excruciating to witness."

He glowered at her knees, stubbornly avoiding her eyes. "How else am I supposed to react to – "

" – The scent was the same," the werewolf confirmed, talking over Stiles, who abandoned the topic of Lydia and jumped eagerly out of his seat.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

Stiles huffed. "So he did bury the other half of the body on his property?"

"Which means we have proof he killed the girl," Scott finished.

"I say we use – " Stiles started, breaking off when he noticed the sweat on Mal's brow. "Hey, Mal, are you okay? You don't look so good."

She snorted but sent a furtive and silencing look Scott's way. "Gee, thanks for the self-esteem boost, Stiles…I'm fine, it was just a little hot in there. What were you saying?"

But unlike Scott, he didn't immediately drop the subject. "It was hot in the _morgue_? The dead body storage unit kept at a constant thirty-nine degrees? _Really_?" he asked with a disbelieving frown.

"_Yes_, Stiles, I was hot. Maybe I'm getting sick. Can we please just concentrate on the _real_ issue here?" she requested, attempting to deflect attention from herself. Thankfully, Scott didn't tell their other friend the truth. He must've known it would lead to unnecessary questions and potential fussing.

Stiles's face crumpled at her evasiveness, but he backed down anyway. "Yeah, fine. But, Scott, _you_ have to tell me something first. Are you doing this because you want to stop Derek, or because you want to play in the game, and he said you couldn't?"

"There are bite marks on the legs, Stiles – bite marks," Scott murmured gloomily. There wasn't a hint of selfishness in his tone.

"He gets that this isn't about lacrosse anymore," Mal added, sharp claws gleaming in her mind's eye.

"Okay. Then we're gonna need a shovel," Stiles affirmed readily. "Or three."

* * *

They'd timed their arrival perfectly, pulling up in front of the Hale house five seconds after Derek had driven off. _To the gas station, to the gas station_, Mal recited to herself as a sort of soothing mantra. Bloodthirsty killers had to fuel their cars somehow.

Scott, Stiles, and Mal exited the car with three shovels and a reasonable measure of caution. In case Derek really wasn't gone and instead, waiting to attack.

"Wait, something's different," the superhuman boy alerted his friends, handing Mal the flashlight for her to sweep it over the derelict building and ensure that they had no other company.

"Different how?" Stiles asked as they hastened to the side of the house.

"I don't know."

"Let's just get this over with," Mal suggested, simultaneously worn-out and wound up. "It's late, and I'm freezing." She'd stopped sweating a while ago and was now experiencing the other temperature extreme, thanks to the flimsy sweater she'd picked out that morning.

"You should probably start dressing more warmly. I have a hunch this won't be the last of our dangerous expeditions," Stiles commented with an unseemly smirk. He dashed to the Jeep, extracted something through the driver's side window, and came back with a navy blue jacket, holding it out so Mal could slide her arms through the sleeves.

"Thank you," she said gratefully. "You aren't cold?" True to form, he was wearing a long-sleeved plaid shirt with a t-shirt underneath, but no coat. She assumed he'd be freezing, too.

"Nah, I've got the hottest blood around," he joked, pulling the zipper up and rubbing her arms to thaw her. "Winters in Russia couldn't do jack shit to me."

Mal laughed, and the pair proceeded to join Scott.

He'd already set about digging for the body, grunting with the exertion of hurling aside each heavy pile of soil and wet leaves. She placed the flashlight on the ground to illuminate their workspace, and all together, they shoveled in companionable silence.

"This is taking too long," Scott protested nearly half-an-hour later.

"Just keep going," Stiles insisted.

Mal stated optimistically, "We're getting closer."

"What if he comes back?" Scott wondered aloud, continuing to scoop dirt.

"Then we get the hell out of here," Stiles replied.

"What if he catches us?"

"I have a plan for that."

"Which is?"

"All three of us run in separate directions. Whoever he catches first, too bad," Stiles said thoughtlessly.

"I hate that plan," Scott criticized.

"Definitely your worst one yet," Mal agreed.

Stiles ignored their disapproval, commanding them to "Stop, stop, stop," once he'd hit something firm. The trio bent down, clearing dirt away to reveal a canvas covering bound with rope. Stiles and Mal labored over the knots, and Scott urged them to hurry.

"We're trying. Did he have to tie the thing in, like, 900 knots?" Stiles squawked.

"I'll do it," Scott said.

The three of them hurriedly undid the remaining knots and at last exposed the terrifying thing atop the canvas: the same sable-haired wolf Mal had seen not three hours before. Except now, the creature was glassy-eyed and dead. Not to mention the lower half of its carcass was unaccounted for. But even this wasn't what made Mal jump out of her skin.

Stiles and Scott shot out of the hole with cacophonous screams, and after almost doing the same, Mal whirled around to glare at them. "Shut up! Someone's gonna hear you two!"

But Stiles ignored her, pointing at the half-wolf and shouting, "What the hell is that?!"

"It's a wolf, genius," Mal said exasperatedly.

"Yeah! I can see that," Stiles snapped and then shrieked at Scott, "I thought you said you smelled blood, as in human blood!"

"I told you guys something was different."

"This doesn't make sense," Stiles asserted, training his stare on the unearthed animal and failing to catch the light of comprehension dawning in Mal's eyes.

"We gotta get out of here," Scott instructed his friends, still on the lookout for Derek.

"Yeah. Okay, help me cover this up," Stiles said in agreement, reaching out for the shovel and then pausing.

Scott looked at him and asked, "What's wrong?"

Stiles prodded Mal – who reluctantly dragged her gaze away from the wolf – and pointed at a plant a couple of feet away. "You guys see that flower?"

"What about it?" the other two replied in unison.

"I think it's wolfsbane."

"What's that?" Scott questioned with furrowed eyebrows.

"Uh – haven't you ever seen The Wolf Man?" Scott shook his head, so Stiles went on, "Lon Chaney Jr.? Claude Rains?" Scott exhaled, moderately put out, and Stiles practically shouted, "The original classic werewolf movie?"

"No! What?"

"You are so unprepared for this," Stiles carped at Scott, bypassing the hole and yanking the flower out of the ground, only to discover that it was attached to yet another rope.

"You know, according to Greek mythology, Theseus – the founder of Athens – was nearly poisoned by wolfsbane," Mal informed Scott, as Stiles began circling the pit to gather all of the cord. "His father was the king at the time, and he'd married the sorceress Medea, who realized Theseus was her husband's son and rightful heir to the throne upon his return to Athens. She was scared he'd be chosen over her own son, so she snuck wolfsbane into his wine. Fortunately, the king recognized him before it was too late, but – "

" – Mal?" Scott asked, watching Stiles and only half-listening. "What does any of that have to do with me?"

"Uh, not much, I guess. I mean it _is_ just a myth, but – listen, aconite is a bona fide poison. Historically, it's been used to kill wolves, and considering you're a _werewolf_ now, I'd stay far away from that stuff if I were you," she cautioned, gesturing at the plant currently held by Stiles, who was paying absolutely no attention to her warning.

Scott nodded at her before looking back down the hole. "Guys," he said, dumbfounded, and his companions came up behind him.

"Holy – " Stiles uttered, too shocked to end the sentence.

Below them lay the head and torso of a young woman, the one Scott had stumbled across the night he was bitten. Mal simply blinked, suddenly understanding why she'd hallucinated a wolf back at the morgue and not a girl. They were one in the same.

What she'd seen was a memory.

* * *

**A/N: Hey, friends. Hope you enjoyed the latest installment of "Headlights". Sorry it took me longer than usual. College started up again last week, so I've been pretty busy settling in and such. And that means I probably won't be updating as regularly, so I apologize in advance. In an ideal world, this would be my job (although if it were, I probably wouldn't do it since I'm such a lazy asshole when it comes to stuff I should be doing.) Anyway, don't worry, I'll post new chapters as soon as they're ready. Hand to God! **

** Also, all the links you might wanna look at are on my profile, including faceclaims and a Polyvore.**


	7. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

_You know you're gold, you don't gotta worry none  
Oasis child, born and so wild  
Don't I know you better than the rest  
All deception, all deception from you_

Elaine Durant should have been downright livid when the Sheriff notified her of Mal's whereabouts on the previous night. She should have yelled and cried and grounded her daughter for at least a month – she'd done a lot more for a lot less. But as it so happened, she wasn't angry in the slightest. And out of every unusual thing Mal had been faced with that week, this might actually have been the most puzzling.

"You aren't mad at me?" she asked her mom over breakfast the next morning, after sharing an abbreviated and previously agreed-upon version of her adventure with Scott and Stiles. As far as their parents knew, Scott, Stiles, and Mal had been going for a walk in the woods, when they stumbled across the body and called the police. The Sheriff had been altogether unsurprised, but making good on his word, he'd told Elaine. So now, as they sat across from each other at the kitchen island, Mal added presumptuously, "Because it feels like you should be, you know, earth-shatteringly furious. To tell you the truth, I was kind of expecting Beacon Hills to implode at your fury."

"Don't be so dramatic. It's unbecoming on you," Elaine retorted with an eye-roll, but then she sighed with what sounded like tired relief. "I'm not mad."

"Are you sure this isn't like the AP Psych thing?" Mal questioned cautiously. " 'I'm only your mother. You should just do whatever pleases _you_'," she imitated in a high-pitched tone.

Amused, her mother quirked an eyebrow. "Do you _want_ it to be like the AP Psych thing? Because I really don't. As I recall, that was rather unpleasant. It was like this out-of-body experience, and I saw myself turning into _my_ mother," she stated with a tiny shudder.

Mal gave her a small smile but had a hard time believing her mom could make light of something so…heavy. She'd come home at three in the morning with dirt caked on her knees and horrifying bags under her eyes, fully prepared for her mother's unmitigated rage. Elaine, however, had claimed she was too exhausted to deal with Mal just yet and that any sort of punishment would have to wait until a more reasonable hour. But she wasn't being as overprotective as Mal had anticipated, and it was freaking her out a little bit. "Why _haven't_ you grounded me 'til I'm grandma's age?" she asked in a critical voice. "Why are you being so...un-you...about this?"

"Look, what you did was exceedingly reckless, and you are _going_ to clean every last inch of this house for it – and I'm talking overpowering-smell-of-Lysol clean – but you were just carrying out your civic duties and trying to protect the rest of the town, which I suppose is a valid argument for doing said exceedingly reckless thing," Elaine granted, defaulting to lawyer-mode. Mal would have laughed if she weren't so bewildered. "Besides, even though Stiles worries me more often than not, I know he'd move heaven and earth to protect you. If only from the type of havoc _he_ doesn't wreak," she chuckled. Her daughter smiled guiltily, so she continued with a smirk, "And Scott's a good kid. He's like the older brother that you do have, except he actually lives within walking distance. I'll always trust him to look out for you."

Mal grinned more easily now. "Me too."

"Don't think you're off the hook, Mallory," Elaine commanded seriously, becoming more like herself again. "I am...indescribably glad that you're all right, but I didn't even know where you were. Stiles's father had to call me, and when I heard that you had – " She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head as if to rid herself of extraneous emotion. "You and your friends shouldn't have been wandering in the woods that late, not with a murderer at large. Thanks to you, he isn't anymore, but that's still no excuse."

"I know," Mal stated earnestly, gazing intently at her mom to express that she meant it. "I know, you're right. It was dangerous and irresponsible, but – but we – "

" – Mallory, I may be a mom, but I do remember what it was like to be young," she said in understanding, and there was something mournful in her remark. But it was gone in an instant, and she cleared her throat to declare with authority, "This won't happen again. I will not lose you, too. Do you understand me?"

Mal dipped her head in shame, staring vacantly at her unfinished cereal. Even all these years, Elaine still couldn't do anything more than vaguely refer to her husband. It was completely justified – they actively avoided mentioning him in the Durant household – but it saddened Mal to think that her mom was so afraid of losing her daughter, she felt compelled to bring him up at all. And what made it worse was that Mal knew she couldn't give her mom the answer she wanted, because as Stiles had put it, this wouldn't be the last of their dangerous expeditions.

* * *

When Stiles came to pick her up so they could see Derek's arrest for themselves, he was simply amazed. "Wow. Your mom was pissed at me for a solid week after the lawnmower incident," he pointed out indignantly. "There was a murderous werewolf involved this time, and she _didn't_ blow a gasket?"

"It might be due to the fact that she doesn't – and _will never _– know Derek's a werewolf, but yeah, she was pretty chill about it," Mal confirmed, leaving out the part regarding her father. "Although, d'you remember that episode of 'Star Trek' you nagged me to watch with you last year? The one with the evil, spastic android trying to pass itself off as some other android? Mom twitched like that thing for a solid ten seconds when I got home."

" '_Nagged _you'?" Stiles repeated incredulously. "I do not _nag – _and you loved that episode!"

Mal snorted loudly. "No, _you _loved it. You were obsessed with 'Next Generation' for a solid three months after that – And speaking of obsession, 'The Wolf Man'? Really? _That's _what you're gonna use as your source for werewolf information? I was hoping for something better from you," she said in a playfully condescending tone.

"What? How can you say that?! There's nothing better than 'The Wolf Man'!" Stiles almost shrieked. "It's a black-and-white masterpiece!"

"Only as far as the production value goes for movies made in the '40s. And even then, 'masterpiece' is kind of overstating it. I mean, the make-up was God-awful, the acting was so bad I couldn't stop laughing – Remember? – And the ending was totally disappointing. It felt way too rushed," Mal criticized, thinking back on her experience with the so-called horror movie. Fondly, she reminisced about how Stiles had been staring at her for nearly the entire seventy minutes, searching her for the exact reactions he'd had when he'd seen the film for the first time. Needless to say, he was utterly crestfallen when she couldn't tell him it was her favorite.

"No, you're – you're wrong! It was perfect! Sir Talbot _killed_ his own son. He'd have to live with that for the rest of his life! There was absolutely nothing left to be desired in the ending," Stiles argued stubbornly. "And obviously the make-up's gonna be God-awful in a movie that old. That's the beauty of it!"

"Hey, man. You can love whichever horror movies you wanna love," Mal assured him, throwing her hands up in surrender. " 'Psycho' is much more up _my_ alley, though."

"Of course, it is! 'Psycho' is the definition of a classic. But it's more thriller than horror," he explained imperiously. "It's like you're saying chocolate chip cookies are better than curly fries. The two are totally awesome in their own right, but they're completely unrelated…God, you are – I don't even – " Stiles spluttered, pausing to exhale forcefully. "You know what? At least I have Scott left. When he finally gets around to it – "

" – If he _ever_ gets around to it – " Mal interjected cheekily.

Stiles went on as if she hadn't said anything. " – He's gonna love it. A thousand percent!"

"Sure, okay. Whatever keeps you from spontaneously combusting." Mal smirked snobbishly but held her tongue after that, and most of the remainder of the car ride was silent. But then Stiles started tapping his fingers on the steering wheel – fitfully – and wouldn't stop. Flailing arms and jerky movements were both characteristic of him, but his rhythm was usually unaffected by that. (Mal had always assumed his long, slender fingers had something to do with it.) "What's on your mind, Stiles?" she asked confidently, twisting in her seat to face him. It was more a statement of fact than a question, though.

"Huh?" he asked distractedly, tearing his eyes from the road for half a second to glance at Mal. When she nodded to his hands, he looked down at them and feebly answered, "Oh! No. Nah, this is – it's nothing. Heh, I'm always drumming."

Mal blinked, unconvinced. "Stiles, you've been my best friend for eleven years, longer than the actual show 'Friends' ran on TV. You wanna try that again?" she challenged him.

Stiles sighed and grit his teeth. Not out of irritation with Mal, but out of irritation with himself. "If you laugh, eleven years'll be the cutoff point," he grumbled, but the threat was empty, and they both knew it.

Mal's eyes widened in realization. "This is about Lydia. Something happened with her yesterday, didn't it?" Stiles winced and began fidgeting again, so she continued in a gentler tone, "I saw you staring at her and Jackson at the hospital."

Stiles peeked at Mal before bursting like an overfilled water balloon.

Apparently, he'd found Lydia sitting in the waiting room by herself, "looking as beautiful as she always does with her perfect, strawberry-blonde curls and gorgeous, forest green eyes." (At these exact words, Mal had to clamp her mouth shut and muster all of the strength she possessed to refrain from curling her lip in revulsion.) And then Stiles had summoned the courage to finally talk to the popular girl and reveal his feelings for her, saying something along the lines of, "We have a connection, and I think we should explore it." He almost didn't repeat what Lydia had said to him after that, embarrassed as he was and dreading Mal's volatility when it came to the feisty strawberry-blonde. Because as it so happened, Lydia hadn't even heard him. She'd been on her Bluetooth the whole time, nodding along to whatever the person on the other end had been saying. When she realized that he'd been speaking to her, she literally asked, "Is it worth repeating?"

"Please don't say 'I told you so'," he said miserably. "I mean how was I supposed to know she'd be on the phone? Don't hospitals have rules against that?"

"I don't think Bluetooth counts."

"Great. Fan-freaking-tastic!" Stiles thumped his head against the headrest as soon as they hit a red light. "I don't know what the hell I was even thinking. She's Lydia Martin, for Christ's sake."

"Eugh, Stiles, I hate it when you say that, like she's God come down to Earth or something. She's just a person – and a really nasty one, at that," Mal complained ardently.

"You don't know her – "

" – What? As well as you do? Don't give me that, Stilinski," she growled, crossing her arms. "You've been putting her on a pedestal for years. Literally. Years."

"Oh, well, excuse me. I forgot that you're _so clearly_ experienced in having feelings for someone who doesn't reciprocate them," he snapped back acerbically.

"I am, actually," Mal instantly replied, briefly hesitating to elaborate, "I never told you this, but I had a – I liked Boyd in middle school." While it was a passing crush on a boy she'd never even been friends with, she made sure not to explicitly call it that in front of Stiles. She didn't want him to think she was still treating how he felt about Lydia lightly. She knew he really liked her, but that didn't make embarrassment something that was uniquely his. She'd had her fair share of cringe-worthy experiences, as had everyone else in the world.

"No, you didn't," Stiles declared argumentatively. "You'd have told me and Scott."

"_Normally_, yes. But what ended up happening was me humiliating myself to get him to notice me, and that's the kind of thing your friends tend not to let you live down. Especially in middle school," Mal responded, cringing at the memory.

Stiles opened his mouth as if to disagree, but then he thought better of it. "Yeah, okay. That's probably true," he said instead, before making the excuse, "But it _would've_ been out of affection. If anyone else had tried to mess with you in front of me and Scott, he'd have beat them up, and then I would've found something they were super insecure about and made trauma-inducing jokes about it."

Mal smiled crookedly. "Scott would never have beaten anyone up, and you know that."

"Fine, whatever. Would – would you stop stalling?! I've been waiting years to hear this! Literally. Years!" Stiles exclaimed, unintentionally slamming his hand on the car horn and in return, receiving a very rude gesture from the driver in front of him.

Mal rolled her eyes but didn't waste time pointing out that she'd only just told him about Boyd thirty seconds ago. "Okay, so…this happened sometime around the beginning of seventh grade. I'd tried talking to Boyd a bunch of times, asked him what kind of music he was into, if he played any sports. That sort of thing. But he kept to himself even then, so I got _relatively_ desperate."

Stiles perked up, straightening in his seat and listening with rapt attention. He kept his eyes on the road, however, trying to be a conscientious driver.

"The bus was running late after school one day, and it was raining really hard," Mal resumed with a sour grimace. "Boyd didn't have so much as a jacket, so I offered to share my umbrella with him. He said, 'Thanks', and I said, 'You're welcome', but neither one of us knew what else to talk about while we waited, and the silence was becoming sort of painful. He kept giving me these awkward smiles, and I thought he was just feeling shy, so I told him he could…kiss me if he wanted to."

Stiles's mouth fell open in a funny combination of glee and secondhand embarrassment. "Oh God," he muttered, darting a joyful glance at Mal.

"Yup," she agreed before shaking her head. "Except it actually gets worse. Boyd essentially refused to look me in the eye, mumbled something like, 'No, thanks', under his breath, but _I_ let myself go voluntarily deaf because I didn't really give a shit. I thought he liked me but was just too nervous to do anything about it, so I...made that my excuse to try to kiss him. Which was a total nightmare. I think he might've run the entire way back to his house after that. At any rate, I made a complete jackass of myself in front of him and about twenty-five other kids – including Jackson and Lydia – and they didn't stop laughing for months. I'm honestly surprised you and Scott never heard about it."

Stiles gaped at Mal, who directed his attention back to the road by poking his cheek, albeit with a self-mocking snicker. He blew out a breath of astonishment but was at somewhat of a loss for words. He'd never known his best friend to be presumptuous or act impulsively around people she barely knew; that was reserved for him and Scott. With everyone else, Mal was always the levelheaded, think-before-you-act girl.

"You can laugh if you wanna," she permitted with a twitch of her lips. And he did. For one whole minute. But seeing as it was no longer a sensitive issue for her and given that Stiles's laugh was incredibly infectious, she gamely joined in. Once they'd calmed down, she continued, "I still wanna punch twelve-year-old me in the face – although that's more of a general, middle-school-douchery thing. My point is, I thought I'd die of humiliation. But I got over it, and I'd say Boyd did, too. He even nods at me in the hallway occasionally."

Stiles scrunched his forehead in deliberation, actually feeling quite better. At the very least, Lydia would never know any of the admittedly clichéd things he'd blurted out. And on the plus side, there hadn't been a horde of cruel teenagers around to jeer at him. "Yeah, and you know what? This wasn't my only shot. I can do better next time. I _will_ do better next time!" he reassured himself, instilled with renewed energy.

"Uh, Stiles, that – " she began to argue, on the brink of telling him she didn't actually mean he should keep chasing after Lydia, when she caught the look in his eyes. There was such a fire in them that she felt compelled to swallow her words. " – That sounds more like the Stiles I know."

"Mal, I'm not stupid. I've put together how very little you like her. And I _can_ understand why," Stiles stated upon catching the strained expression on Mal's face. He went on with a heartbreaking sigh, "I mean, she's not exactly the sweetest girl around, but I just…I've seen how amazing she can be. I've seen how brilliant and spirited she is. She doesn't want anyone to know this, she hides it because, I dunno, she's ashamed of it or whatever, but Lydia is _whip_ smart. Like, some kind of Einstein-Newton hybrid. And I won't be surprised if she wins a Nobel Prize before she graduates high school." He could tell Mal was biting the inside of her cheek, so he frowned and said, "You don't have to agree with any of this – I'm aware that your attitude towards her is basically anything but friendly – but it'd be pretty awesome if you could just be, like, the slightest bit supportive."

Mal didn't even remotely agree, but there was a laudability to the way Stiles spoke so admiringly of Lydia, putting her turbulent personality into such gracious terms. He saw something in her that very few people did, and Mal could appreciate liking someone that much.

Still, her heart hurt when Stiles talked like this, when he revealed that there were parts of himself too painful for him to often even look at. Like caring for a girl who didn't feel the same way about him or losing his own mother after too short a time with her. Stiles deserved a much better hand than he'd been dealt in life, and there were so many things Mal wished she were able to do for him but just couldn't.

"I've been doing a shoddy job as the designated moral support, haven't I?" she chuckled, feeling worse about it than she was showing. She took a deep breath and said, "Y'know, I am on your side. I've just been acting a little too much like your bodyguard, I guess." She paused to study Stiles's profile, the wrinkles in his forehead and his thinned lips. "Look, I'll try not to be so spiteful," she gave in, "but _you _have to accept that I'm not just gonna stand by and tolerate her bashing my friends. You can have all the support you want from me, but I can't say the same about Lydia, okay?"

It wasn't the most willing compromise, but Stiles was grinning so wide, Mal could practically feel _her_ cheeks hurting. "I'm pretty sure this is just gonna be a moratorium on all Lydia-related insults said around me, but I'll take it...Thanks, Mal."

Evidently, Lydia was someone he felt very strongly about, and Mal wouldn't be the one to tear him down for it. She couldn't. He and Scott were her dearest friends, and cheering both of them on in their romantic efforts was more or less a preordained aspect of that. If reining in her resentment toward Lydia would make Stiles happy, she would try her best to do so.

Even if it meant playing into his delusions. Even if it meant ignoring the way her insides were twisting.

* * *

When the two teenagers arrived at the Hale property, it was crawling with deputies from the Beacon Hills Police Department. The Sheriff's car was parked right out front, and as Stiles and Mal approached the house, she scanned the premises for Derek, almost pitying him for being taken from his old home without so much as a warning. She assumed that he'd chosen to live there out of loyalty to his family, given that he owned a shiny, black, most likely expensive Camaro. He could probably have afforded better living conditions, but it seemed that he'd decided to stay in the broken-down building, and Mal wondered if maybe he'd just wanted to feel the familiar presence of family again. She had no idea what to do with that possibility, though; it made Derek too human, and she had to remind herself that he wasn't.

"Listen, I wanna talk to Derek, so I need you to find my dad and distract him for a few minutes," Stiles requested, rubbing his hands together with anxious excitement.

"What? You want to get _closer _to the creep that bit Scott? Are you crazy?!" Mal protested, reaching out in vain for the back of Stiles's blazer.

He had already zeroed in on the police cruiser, and before she – or even Scott – could stop him, he sauntered over to it, attempting to appear as casual and unassuming as was possible for the typically negligent boy. He glanced around furtively and then disappeared into the car, while Mal cursed his inquisitiveness and Scott tried to maintain a low profile at least twenty feet away from the commotion. (His mom already thought he might be on drugs, so he figured that meddling in a crime scene probably wasn't in his best interests.)

Mal ran her fingers through her hair but did as Stiles had asked and scuttled over to his dad once she'd spotted him by the side of the Hale house. "Hey, Sheriff! How goes police business?" she inquired nonchalantly, pulling him around to face her and block his view of the cruiser at the same time.

He groaned audibly in response. "It _goes _dangerously. As in, you shouldn't even be here, Mal. I thought Elaine would've grounded you for at least a week or two after yesterday."

Mal frowned and crossed her arms, temporarily diverted from her task. "You wanted me to get in trouble? I kinda thought we were buddies, Sheriff."

"Oh, yeah, real pals," he quipped, mirroring her stance, albeit with much more formidable posture. "Now talk. Does your mom know you're here?"

"Um, not – not_ technically_," Mal stammered pathetically, grimacing when Stiles's dad narrowed his eyes at her. She rushed to explain, "But I told her I'd be with Scott and Stiles, so it's okay. Really. She adores them. In fact, I'm pretty sure she loves Scott more than she loves me most of the time."

"Mal, that doesn't mean you can just – aw, Christ." Sheriff Stilinski paused, recognizing the devious work of his son. Mal struggled to remain outwardly indifferent, but Stiles's dad wasn't the police chief for no reason. "You're the distraction, huh?" he asked instinctively. She made the mistake of flitting her eyes toward his car, but he merely took this as confirmation of what he already knew. "That boy is giving me the grayest hairs," he grumbled, striding over to the vehicle and yanking his son out by the arm.

"Oh, please. You still look like you're thirty-five," she insisted, trailing after him and hoping to soften the scolding Stiles would be powerless to escape.

"Ow, ow, ow," he complained, as his dad dragged him away from the car.

"There. Stand," the Sheriff commanded, dropping Stiles's arm and then sighing heavily. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"I'm just trying to help," Stiles defended, setting his hands on his hips and briefly glaring at Mal, who recoiled sheepishly.

"Okay, well, how 'bout you help me understand exactly how you three came across this," Sheriff Stilinski demanded, peering between the pair of teenagers. Scott was still keeping his distance.

"We were looking for Scott's inhaler," Stiles answered.

"Which he dropped when?"

"The other night."

"The other night when you two were out here looking for the first half of the body," the Sheriff clarified.

"Yes," Stiles replied without thinking.

Mal let out a strange half-whimper, half-groan in warning.

"The night that you and Mal told me you two were alone and Scott was at home," the Sheriff continued.

"Yes," Stiles reiterated, while Mal pinched the bridge of her nose in exasperation. When it finally dawned on him what he'd confessed to, he backpedaled. "No. Oh, crap."

"So you kids lied to me?" the Sheriff questioned in dismay. It took a lot to make him sound that disappointed, and Mal felt awful for it. She hated letting him down. And Stiles was only aggravating the situation.

"That depends on how you define lying," he prevaricated.

"Well, I define it as not telling the truth. How do you define it?" his dad countered.

"Mm, reclining your body in a horizontal position?" Stiles tried, using his hands in the makeshift definition.

"Or, being buried in a specific place, if you're dead," Mal chimed in tentatively, attempting to elicit even the smallest of smiles from the Sheriff. She was incapable of keeping her mouth shut when he was annoyed with her and Stiles.

"Get the hell out of here," he ordered them.

"Absolutely," Stiles agreed, running one hand over his buzz cut and wrapping the other around Mal's elbow.

"Oh no. No, no," the Sheriff objected, pulling her away. "Elaine and Melissa might have the patience to deal with all the grief you three give us, but I have _truly_ had enough for one day. Deputy Cross will take you home, Mal."

"Wha – but I always drive her home. And Scott was a part of this, too! You're not even gonna split us up properly?!" Stiles whined unhelpfully.

The Sheriff stared at him blankly. "You really don't wanna put that idea in my head, Stiles. Ever heard the saying, 'Bad things come in threes'? I'd think you would have, since whoever came up with it must've been acquainted with you delinquents at some point in his life."

"Ouch. Although, I guess that's fair," Mal conceded, waving at Scott and then bidding Stiles good-bye with a grin and a shove.

But her good mood quickly vanished when she remembered that Derek was sitting so close by, the door to the police car the only thing separating her from him. She couldn't make any sense of it, but she was feeling guilty.

It was going to take awhile for her to realize that Derek wasn't.

* * *

"Mind if we stop by the station for a minute?" came Deputy Nathan Cross's request, as he fished out a set of keys from the glove compartment. "Tara'll probably be worrying about these."

Tara Graeme was a member of the Sheriff's department and Mal's favorite deputy by far. When she and Stiles used to hang out at the station, Tara would help the two young children with their math homework. The woman was a godsend and the main reason Mal was even in her current advanced math class. So she replied, "Yeah, 'course. Mind if I come in and say hi?"

"Sure. But she's on duty right now – manning the dispatch line – so we can't stay too long."

The Beacon County Sheriff Station was about as familiar to Mal as her own home, and this, of course, was only because of the Stilinskis. Over the years, she and Stiles – and later, Scott – had paid the Sheriff many a visit, either to bring him dinner, do their homework, or snoop around (as successfully as any three pre-pubescent kids could). Of course, she'd only ever been there on friendly terms and never when legitimate or psychopathic criminals were in the same room, so the station was an almost calming presence to her. It quashed her fears and reminded her that these were the best people to catch a killer. If Derek was guilty, which he had to be, then the Beacon Hills police would figure it out, and he would be appropriately punished.

When Mal and Deputy Cross walked in, Tara immediately looked up from her desk - one of four identical ones strewn with absurd amounts of paperwork – with a huge smile taking over her face. "Well, well, well. If it isn't the Incurable Malady," she declared, accepting her keys from Nathan with gratitude. The affectionate nickname had existed ever since Mal was old enough to know what "malady" meant, and apparently, it had stuck.

Mal rolled her eyes but grinned. "Hey, Tar," she greeted, giving the older woman a hug.

"How are ya, honey?"

Mal gave a half-shrug. "Eh, can't complain." But she could. She _really _could. Mostly about the recent supernatural developments. "You?"

"That depends…Did Stiles put you up to this? Are you in on this stupid prank of his?" Tara asked with a justifiable dose of admonishment. Because usually, the answer to those questions would be "Yes."

Except Mal had no idea what Tara was talking about. "Prank? What prank?"

The deputy snorted in disbelief. "Oh okay, sure. You can play innocent with me. That's fine. But you can also tell your accomplice that I haven't, in fact, gotten any calls about a 'dog-like individual roaming the streets', as he so brilliantly phrased it," she conveyed to Mal with a smirk.

"Tara, I really don't know what – " Mal began, halting abruptly when she realized what must have happened. The ensuing ten-second silence was an apparently revealing response, but before Tara could call her out on it, Mal forced out a laugh and said, "God, he's an idiot. Uh, what did he say exactly?"

"You really had no involvement in this?" Tara questioned skeptically, but Mal maintained eye contact and nodded just once, so she knew the girl wasn't lying to her. "He prank called me about an odd person allegedly roaming the streets. Described him as 'dog-like', whatever the hell that means."

Mal chuckled uncomfortably, suddenly itching to get out of the station. "Yeah, well you know Stiles. Forever the misfit with all the goofy hijinks – Listen, I should probably let you get back to work, but it was great to see you."

Thoroughly unaware of Mal's internal panic, Tara winked. "You, too, hon. Don't be a stranger."

Mal didn't stop fidgeting once during the drive back to her house. Mostly because her phone wouldn't stop buzzing, and she knew she couldn't pick it up without alerting Deputy Cross to what she'd inferred was a young werewolf currently on the loose. Why else would Stiles have called Tara while she was on duty? He knew it wasn't allowed.

When Nathan parked in front of her house, she thanked him without delay and practically sprinted up to her room, pressing "2" on her speed dial and waiting impatiently for Stiles to pick up. Ironically, her phone had stopped vibrating the minute she'd stepped foot into her house.

"_Yo,_" was Stiles's frustratingly one-worded answer.

Mal cut right to the chase. "Where's Scott?"

"_Hell if I know,_" Stiles replied, and he sounded almost apathetic to Mal's ears.

"Stiles! Some concern would be nice," she reproached him. "I was just at the station. Tara said you called her and asked about a 'dog-like individual'? What happened?! I thought you were taking him home?"

"_I was,_" Stiles sighed, suddenly becoming defensive. "_He started losing it in the Jeep, 'cause I…kind of kept the wolfsbane in my backpack. You know, for research purposes. But he flipped, so I pulled over to throw it away, and – and he disappeared. Tara didn't take me seriously…but I'm thinking that's a good thing. That's gotta mean no one's found him yet._"

Mal tangled her free hand in her hair, racking her brains for a solution. "Listen, you aren't going to like this – hell, I hate this – but I don't know if we can actually do anything for him this time. I mean, we _could_ drive around like last Friday – "

"_ – No. We can't,_" Stiles interrupted decisively. "_I shouldn't have kept that damn wolfsbane, but I have no idea where the hell he is, and after what happened today, my dad's keeping a really close watch on me. Who knows, though? Maybe Werewolf Scott has common sense. Maybe he's just hanging out in the woods, scratching at his fleas or something._"

Mal laughed despite herself. "Maybe. I guess we'll just have to wait it out, and anyway, you have to get ready for the game."

"_Only if Coach miraculously gets amnesia and forgets that I suck,_" Stiles scoffed. "_You know I never actually play_."

"Well, if Scott doesn't show up, you might have to."

Mal heard teeth grinding. "_You are _so_ not helping_."

* * *

Elaine had to work that evening, so she texted Mal that she'd have to miss the lacrosse game and that she was sorry. Theo, on the other hand, had nothing better to do, so he drove Mal to the high school and at the last minute, decided to stick around and watch. The air of excitement was enticing, and teenagers and adults alike were steadily filling up the bleachers on the lacrosse field, most of them chattering away excitedly. It was only 6:50 pm, but it was already dark enough for Mal to see her breath, along with everyone else's. The biting January air made her draw her coat tighter around herself and retreat into the warmth of her scarf. She was glad she'd donned something more comfortable than the dress she knew she'd have had to wear had her plans with Allison still stood.

_Thank God for police-enforced curfews_, she thought facetiously.

"Scott and Stiles are still _basically_ the mascots, right?" Theo teased, as the two siblings searched for decent seats.

"This, coming from a guy who barely knew the breaststroke when he tried out for the swim team freshman year?" Mal retorted with a smirk.

"Yes, because that same guy came in second during the Beacon County Regional meet of 2006. So, he does have some authority to trash-talk." Theo had, in fact, been on the Beacon Hills Swim Team in his day, but only after two years of an almost fanatical devotion to learning the sport.

"Fine, just please stop referring to yourself in the third person. It's pretentious as hell," Mal mocked her brother, scanning the field for any sign of her MIA-werewolf-best-friend. "Hey, can you hang tight for a minute? I wanna wish Scott and Stiles good luck."

"Sure. From what I remember, they'll need it."

"Too true," she mused apprehensively.

After sharing a wave with the Sheriff – he wasn't one to hold a grudge, least of all against Stiles or his friends – Mal speed-walked to the boys' locker room. The Cyclones were gearing up for the game, and as she waited outside, she could hear Coach Finstock bellowing out his usual _Independence Day _pep talk. Being the captain, Jackson was the first to walk out, rolling his eyes pronouncedly and muttering, "Freak", under his breath when he saw Mal. She ignored him, grinning a mile wide when Stiles walked out with his hands on Scott's shoulders, his customary method of encouragement.

"You scared the shit out of us, dude!" Mal exclaimed, broad smile still on her face as she whacked Scott's arm with the back of her hand. She was too relieved to be upset. "Where have you been?"

"At Allison's. You guys don't have to freak, though. She's fine. Everything's fine," Scott answered, but the statement was contradicted by the nervousness and distress in his expression. "Y'know, except that her dad decided to come watch the game with her…God, if I turn, I'm dead. Worse than dead. Like, twice dead. 'Cause Derek's gonna kill me and since that won't be enough, so will Allison's _freaking_ father!"

"Whoa, hey buddy," Stiles cut in, "It'll be fine. Just – "

" – Don't think about any of that? Yeah, Stiles, you said that already. In, like, a hundred, annoyingly different ways, " Scott moaned, referring to something the other boy must have said in the locker room. "I – I can't do this. I _don't_ know what I'm doing."

"Stiles, could you give us a sec?" Mal asked abruptly, her eyes focused on Scott.

"Um…yeah. Yeah, sure. I'll see you guys out there," he said, glancing back at his companions once, before catching up with the rest of the team.

"Scott, we are going to figure this out. I promise you that," Mal declared with total confidence, however out of place it sounded at the moment. "All the snooping around we've been doing for six years is finally going to pay off, okay? But right now – right now, you have got to breathe. You belong on the lacrosse team. You belong on first line. Doesn't matter if it happened because of some werewolf bite. You deserve to be out on that field just as much as Jackson does. So, forget everything else, and just concentrate on the game. Nothing but lacrosse, comprende?"

"Nothing but lacrosse," Scott repeated, the look on his face beginning to harden with resolve. "Nothing but lacrosse."

"Everything's going to be okay. Just try not to let anything piss you off – by which I almost exclusively mean Whittemore – and know that I have enough faith in you for both me _and_ Stiles," Mal asserted, patting his upper back bracingly.

"You do?" Scott asked dubiously.

"Yeah, I do," she affirmed with an heartfelt smile. "I wanna say Stiles and I didn't come after you because we always had faith in you, but the truth is we just didn't know where you'd gone. Anyway, that doesn't matter. You're here now, and no one's hurt. And I personally think that if werewolf Scott McCall can go six hours without ravaging the city, then human Scott McCall can certainly go another one."

Scott wasn't entirely convinced of that, but Mal's was a much better pep talk than Coach Finstock's, and with his chin up, he strode out to the field with her.

But, of course, everything in his life seemed to be conspiring against him. The first of his problems came in the form of his mother, who'd held true to her word and gotten out of work for her son's first game. She waved at Scott and Mal cheerfully and went to sit down next to Theo on the right-hand set of bleachers. And then came the "devastating hurricane" – according to Mal – that was Lydia Martin.

"Scott," she forcefully addressed the hapless boy, tugging him by the jersey to secure his attention. Stiles goggled at them from the bench, while Mal growled at the overbearing girl. "I just want you to remember one thing for tonight."

Scott looked down at her hand. "Uh – winning isn't everything?"

Lydia laughed airily and smoothed out Scott's jersey. "Nobody likes a loser," she taunted him, patting his chest with finality.

"Nobody likes a spoiled brat, either. But you don't hear us complaining," Mal snarled with tightly crossed arms. She might've tried to be civil for Stiles's sake, but Lydia wasn't giving her much incentive for that.

She gave Mal a once-over, plainly disapproving of what she saw but smiling nonetheless. "I've never been under the impression that Scott deliberately tries to be a loser, but it is kind of fascinating that you do. Right down to that _fiasco_ only a homeless woman would call an outfit," she retorted haughtily, before flouncing away toward Allison, who'd been watching the exchange with unease.

Staring meaningfully at Mal's clenched fists, Scott asked, "Do I have to worry about _you_ killing someone now, too?"

Mal scowled but mumbled out a, "Good luck", spinning on her heels and then joining her brother and Mrs. McCall up in the stands.

* * *

There were five minutes left in the game, and Stiles was viciously biting down on his lacrosse glove. His father and Melissa McCall were frowning, Theo's brow was deeply furrowed, and Mal was digging her nails into her thighs. Why? Because none of the other players were passing the ball to Scott.

"Is there a reason no one's letting him play?" Melissa inquired crossly, turning to Mal for answers. She'd sacrificed a shift at the hospital, after all, only to see her son's teammates excluding him as if it were just one big game of Monkey in the Middle.

"Yeah. Jackson Whittemore is a puffed up meathead," Mal replied irritably, making sure to speak loudly enough for Lydia to hear her from where she was seated two benches behind, cheering obnoxiously. "A thousand bucks says he told the rest of the team not to pass to Scott."

"Why? Doesn't being on first line give him, like, a pivotal role on the team?" Theo chimed in from Mal's other side. He was well versed in the language of swimming, not lacrosse.

"You'd think so, but that jackass obviously thinks he's talented enough to carry the whole team without Scott," she answered, directing her attention back to her friend, who was now hunched over and breathing heavily. She made brief eye contact with Stiles, but the two of them reluctantly remained where they were.

A player from the competing high school started backing away from Scott, so Mal began chewing her nails. And then gnashing her teeth when she glanced over her shoulder to find Lydia and Allison holding up a sign that read, "Jackson is #1". But this was precisely the push Scott needed.

Facing off with a member of the opposing team, the young werewolf jumped five feet in the air to snag the ball. He landed quite gracefully, masterfully dodging every rival player as he dashed across the field. Melissa bounced on her feet with pleasure, and then, Scott scored his first goal of the season. Practically every Cyclones supporter shot up from the bleachers at once, some of them applauding and some of them pumping their fists in the air. Mal whooped for joy and side-hugged Mrs. McCall while they jumped up and down together. "That's what I'm talking about!"

She could hear Stiles shout, "Yes! That's what I – what? What?", his palms facing up as he made a raise-the-roof motion. He whirled around to find her, and they grinned at each other with a tacit appreciation for how wonderfully things were panning out. Maybe everything _was_ going to be all right.

The next goal was Scott's as well, but that was when things got weird. Not necessarily dangerous. Just weird. For reasons Mal had gathered were of the lycanthropic variety, a player on the opposing team tossed the ball directly to Scott, who ran across the field again but this time, shot the ball with such force, it tore straight through the goalie's stick pocket and into the net. Mal didn't know quite what to make of this but clapped just the same, nodding dazedly when Mrs. McCall asked, "Wh – Did you see that?"

Spectators and teammates cheered again, but tensions rose palpably at the collective realization that the two schools were now at a tie and there were mere seconds left on the clock. The referee called, "Set!", and Jackson grabbed the ball. He passed it to Scott, who hastened down the field but then took a sudden pause. No one actively pursued him, but Mal was getting antsy. "What are you doing?" she murmured, wondering whether he was able to hear her with his new powers. If he could, he made no indication of it.

Mal could tell by the way Stiles was standing – his back sort of bent and his neck visibly stiff – that he was just as agitated as she was. Looking around, she discovered that Stiles's dad had started tapping his foot, Melissa had her hands clasped together, and Theo's lips were set in a hard line. Even Lydia and Allison were on edge, the former gripping the metal bench beneath her and the latter swallowing heavily before murmuring something to herself. Mal remembered Allison telling her and Scott at the party that she'd never been to a lacrosse game before; she'd barely even known what the sport was until she'd arrived in Beacon Hills. Funnily enough, she was now as emotionally invested as the rest of the town.

With almost no time left, a few of the rival players finally took a run at Scott.

Except they were too late. Scott no longer had the ball, and the Cyclones had already won.

* * *

Bliss. The next sixty seconds were sheer bliss.

If the roar of the crowd had been loud before, it was positively deafening now. The applause intensified tenfold, and people danced in the stands. Mal briefly found herself in Mrs. McCall's warm embrace and then Theo's (which was amusing since the only sport he'd ever claimed to enjoy was swimming.) Allison was laughing gloriously, so Mal stretched on her toes to give her the most enthusiastic of high-fives. Mal, herself, mostly followed lacrosse for Scott and Stiles, but its gift for bringing the town of Beacon Hills together was kind of a beautiful thing. Not even Lydia's "We love you, Scott!" could annoy her.

Mal virtually flew out of the stands upon spotting Stiles by the bench. He was holding both of his arms as high in the air as he could and yelling, "Yes! Ha! Oh my God!"

She attacked him with a gigantic hug, her arms clasped firmly around his torso, and he tottered considerably at the impact of her slender but surprisingly powerful body. Once he recovered his footing, Stiles threw his arms around Mal and squeezed her back, strongly enough to lift her a few inches off the ground. "Victory is ours!" he proudly proclaimed, setting Mal down and beaming at her radiantly.

It became slightly difficult to breathe over the furious pounding of her heart, but in the chaos, Mal didn't think to chalk it up to anything other than post-game adrenaline. "Hell yeah!" she cried in agreement, as the crowd began filing out into the parking lot.

The pair went back for Stiles's gear, and his smile faded a touch when he sat down to retie his shoes. "I guess, technically, the victory is Scott and Jackson's, but – Dad, what's wrong?" he asked, breaking off at the sight of his father. The Sheriff was standing a few feet from them, talking on his cell phone in hushed and hurried tones to someone important. He held up a silencing finger but ended the call a minute later with a frustrated expression on his face.

Mal's eyes sparked in concern. "What's up, Sheriff?"

"It's a police matter, Mal, and you know I can't tell you about those," he replied, but it was a halfhearted reprimand, and she and Stiles could tell.

"Dad, come on," he insisted, standing up and trying to seem imposing by putting his hands on his hips. "You, of all people, should know how this works by now. I'm just gonna keep bugging you until you cave."

The Sheriff scoffed lightly but surrendered what he'd heard.

And what he'd heard was bad. Not just because the medical examiner had attributed the bite marks to a wolf, or that the police now thought the real killer was an animal, or even that the Sheriff had ID'd the dead girl as Laura Hale, Derek's older sister. Granted, none of this was good news exactly, and all of it should've alarmed Mal the way it did with Stiles – who had to sit back down on the bench to process everything – but she just stood there with her hands shoved in her coat pockets, as if that would smother the guilt that was gnawing at her.

It was instinctual, her newfound yet all-consuming conviction that Derek Hale was innocent, but what was disconcerting to Mal was that a part of her, no matter how small, had sensed it ever since her episode in the morgue.

* * *

After the Sheriff left for the station to release Derek from lockup, Mal told Stiles to find Scott and let him know what had happened, neglecting even then to mention her vision of Laura. (She wasn't quite sure what else to call it.) So he made a mad dash for the locker room, where Mrs. McCall said she'd seen her son run off, pursued by a pretty brunette she'd assumed was Allison. Mal would've gone with Stiles, but Theo was waiting for her by the parking lot.

"What's up with him?" he laughed, when Stiles raced past.

"Uh, pretty much the usual," Mal lied, smiling awkwardly. "Listen, there's something I should probably tell you, and I want you to hear it from me rather than on the news." She knew what she had to tell her brother, but she wasn't really looking forward to the conversation.

"Um, okay? What is it?" Theo asked slowly, his brow scrunching up in a mixture of fear and curiosity.

"Derek was arrested this morning," she hesitantly began. "Scott, Stiles, and I found the other half of the dead girl buried on his property, so we called Stiles's dad."

"Oh God, no…" he muttered as his head lolled back.

"We had to, Theo," she defended weakly, unable to believe this herself. "What – what else were we supposed to do?"

"Jesus, Mal," he groaned, dragging his fingers through his already disheveled hair and simply messing it up further.

"But you were right, and – and I was wrong," she admitted with difficulty, hoping Theo wouldn't give her too much of a hard time about what she was going to say next. "As it turns out, Derek's…innocent. At least of what he was taken into custody for. And I would totally get it if you're bent out of shape about it, because you two used to be friends and I – I definitely ruined that for good, but – "

" – Oh, is _that_ it? Is that why I should be 'bent out of shape'?" he questioned sarcastically. " 'Cause I'm pretty sure I'm just pissed off that my sister keeps throwing herself into all these highly dangerous situations."

"What?" Mal asked obtusely. "What are you talking about?"

"Are you kidding me? I've been here barely two weeks, and you and your idiotic friends have somehow been dead body hunting _twice_. Not to mention that you got someone arrested, someone you practically ordered me to stay away from but obviously couldn't yourself! Jesus Christ, Mal! I know you're kind of dense sometimes, but to be this _stupid_?! It's unprecedented!" Theo ranted, growing louder with every word until he was shouting at her and visibly shaking.

Mal shrank back at his harsh tone, wounded. "I was…trying to help," she mumbled, but the sentiment didn't feel genuine. If she'd truly been trying to help, she would've told Stiles and Scott what had happened back in the morgue. She would've told them how she hadn't really blacked out but rather seen a memory of the girl's death, seen the silhouette of her killer as he lunged at the woman in wolf form, a silhouette she should've realized sooner could never have belonged to a twenty-four-year-old Derek. She should've told Stiles before he'd run off to find Scott just now. So why hadn't she?

"No, you weren't," Theo argued fiercely. "You and Stiles just get your kicks from nosing around in business that isn't yours. I told you that you were making outrageous accusations, but you didn't listen to me, and now you've ruined Derek's life because of it!"

The statement stung, and Mal was struck speechless by the truth of it. Thanks to her carelessness, Derek's reputation would forever be tarnished.

Nevertheless, Theo was causing quite a scene in the near-empty parking lot, and in the midst of all the yelling, a man had gotten out of his Chevy Tahoe and was now walking straight up to the pair of siblings. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to intrude, but is everything all right? I couldn't help but overhear," he explained, observing Mal so closely, it was unnerving.

The stranger was in his early forties and had to be someone's parent, so his concern made sense, but Mal couldn't help picking up on an almost threatening vibe coming from him. Like he didn't really care about them but rather what they were talking about. Like he wouldn't have bothered interrupting them if he hadn't found what they were discussing so interesting. "Uh, yeah, we're okay," she said without further clarification. "Right, Theo?"

"Yes, we're fine," her brother curtly replied. "Just a disagreement between siblings. Which we can work out on our own, so if you don't mind…"

The man's eyes hid their burning interest remarkably well, but his subsequent inquiry did not. "Yes, of course. I just noticed that you were talking about Derek Hale. I understand he got back to town recently?" He asked the question in a policeman-like manner, commanding but restrained. All he was missing were the badge, pen, and notepad.

Theo stared at him harshly, so Mal took it upon herself to respond. "Yeah…about two weeks back," she warily confirmed. "Do you know him?"

"His family," the man stated vaguely. "When they were alive. Such a shame they all perished in a fire like that. Tragic, really." The least perceptive person in the world would've detected the insincerity in his words; 'Tragic' was not what he'd wanted to call it. That much was transparently clear.

"Right, tragic. So…who did you come to the game for? Son on the team?" she inquired, seeking a subject change.

"Thank God, no," he laughed throatily, enjoying some private joke. "My daughter's…friend is on the team."

And right on cue, Allison popped up at his side, glaring. (Was it Mal's imagination or did she look a lot more flushed than the cold should have warranted?) "Jeez, Dad, how many of my friends do you plan on terrorizing before it's enough?" she half-teased. To Mal, she said, "He ran over Scott earlier and basically scared the crap out of him."

Mal's eyes widened significantly. Of course the idiot had avoided mentioning that he'd been hurt yet again, and by a werewolf hunter, no less. But it all made sense now. The piercing stare, the questionable inquiry, the threatening vibe. Since it was his job to purge the town of werewolves, Allison's father would profit from any details concerning Derek Hale. Mal couldn't determine whether or not he knew Derek was a werewolf, but she considered it a good thing that she didn't know very much about him apart from that, because now that he was being released, he'd have no safe place to hide. She just hoped the hunters didn't know the Hale house's location yet.

"I didn't run him over, Allison. I hit him lightly because he came out of nowhere," her dad patiently replied. "He clearly isn't injured, given his performance on the field."

Mal looked apprehensive and Theo still seemed irritated, so Allison whacked her dad's arm with the back of her hand. "Did you even introduce yourself, weirdo?"

Mal softened when the man smiled at his daughter affectionately. He turned back to her and held out a hand, which she and Theo shook politely. "Chris Argent, sorry about that. If I _terrorized_ you," he mimicked Allison, glancing back at her amusedly, "I promise you I didn't mean to."

"Nice to meet you," Mal acknowledged respectfully, a bit more receptive than she'd been three minutes ago. "I'm Mallory."

"Theodore," her brother interjected in a clipped tone, still angry that some strange man had meddled in family business. He'd have liked to yell at Mal some more, but that no longer appeared to be an option.

"Nice to meet you both, as well. Shall we, Allison?" Mr. Argent asked, gesturing toward his car. Sternly, he reminded everyone, "None of us should be out past a police-enforced curfew."

"Yeah, sure, dad," Allison agreed with an unmistakable eye roll. "Think you can defy the law for just a few more minutes, so I can say goodbye to my friend?"

He nodded once and left her alone with Mal and Theo.

"I'm assuming you want to wait for Stiles and Scott, so I'm leaving," Theo said gruffly, smiling courteously at Allison but then stomping off to his Honda. Mal watched him leave, feeling like a chastised schoolchild. He wasn't going to forgive her soon.

"Is he…okay?" Allison inquired delicately.

"Yeah, just a tad upset with me. But I deserve it," Mal sighed sadly. She chewed on her lip for a moment but then took a restorative breath and turned to Allison with an amiable smile. "Anyway, what's up with you? What's the verdict on high school lacrosse?"

Allison giggled. Legitimately giggled. "I'm feeling pretty great about it. You know something? Number 11 isn't half-bad," she remarked with a smirk, but there was more to the compliment than she was letting on, more than just a mischievous undertone.

Mal narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "Why do I feel like you aren't really talking about Scott's lacrosse skills?"

"Because I'm…kind of not…" Allison trailed off, the blush reappearing on her face as she bit her lip.

"Well, don't leave me hanging!" Mal cried eagerly, swatting the other girl's shoulder.

Allison tucked a curled locket of hair behind her ear, staring shyly and fixedly at the ground. "Mal, I don't know if I should be talking to you about this, since you're one of his best friends and all. I mean, don't get me wrong, I really like you. That's actually kind of my point. I want to be your friend, and I'm pretty sure freaking you out isn't the best way to go about that."

Mal's mouth nearly fell open. "Oh my god! You guys kissed. Oh man, you did. You totally kissed, and you totally loved it!"

Allison stepped in front of Mal to block her from her father's view, paranoid as she was that he'd never let her leave the house again if he knew. "Shhh! Not so loud!"

Mal snorted but toned down her excitement. "Sorry, I just…wow, this is awesome. I'm really happy for you!"

"Huh, I can tell," Allison whispered, sniggering for a few seconds before sobering up. "Wait, are you sure this is okay? That I'm talking to you about Scott like this? Um, romantically?"

"As long as you don't describe anything in excruciating detail, yes, absolutely," Mal permitted after a moment's contemplation, grinning toothily. "And I'll admit it helps that those plans with Lydia and Jackson got canceled."

Allison frowned. "Yeah, about that. I'm sorry we couldn't all go out together. It would've been nice to celebrate with you guys, and I really think the post-win euphoria would have been enough to neutralize everyone's…issues with each other," she remarked optimistically, hesitating to mention the antagonism between Jackson and Scott as well as Lydia and Mal. If she didn't talk about it, maybe it would cease to exist.

"I doubt it, but you're sweet for trying," Mal said genially.

"Listen, I should probably get back to my dad, but thanks for…being happy for me. It kind of means a lot," Allison praised warmly.

"That his best friend _so_ approves?" Mal finished, hands in her pockets as she bounced on her feet with delight.

Allison's blush darkened. "Yeah."

The two girls shared a quick hug, and Mal allowed herself a moment of peaceful happiness.

Unfortunately, it wouldn't last.

* * *

**A/N: Ahh, okay. Sorry for the wait! To those of you who have been following, reviewing, or even just reading "Headlights", I sincerely apologize! I've been trying to find a happy medium between schoolwork, life, and this story (which I have fallen quite in love with) and am still struggling with that. I hope this makes it kind of worth it. Incidentally, it's the longest chapter I've written, clocking in at over 10,000 words. Wow (for me, anyway).  
**

**I strongly recommend skimming over the whole story, because I made a bunch of edits, but that's your call, of course. **

**HUGE THANKS TO: QueenOfTheHobbits, Ayine, sugabee14, TheDysfunctional, green angel01, CupCakes24, angelskull16, and Lmv16 for reviewing. You all have truly kept me going, and your lovely comments make my day! **

**Follow, fave, and please review! Thanks, my pretties.**


	8. Chapter 7

Please follow, favorite, and review if you can! The comments especially make my day, they're a huge part of what makes writing as fun for me as it is, and I would love to know what each one of you thinks. Happy reading!

* * *

**Chapter 7**

_You're ducking and moving  
__Just to hide your bruises from all your enemies  
__And I'm in the crossfire dodging bullets  
__From your expectancies_

Mal slept fitfully the following Wednesday night. Then again, she had been every night since the lacrosse game, but at this point, it was beginning to take its toll on her. She'd spent the afternoon "doing homework" with Scott, or rather, grumbling a bit and eventually writing up their lab report on her own when the smitten werewolf wouldn't stop fantasizing about Allison and most likely, their kiss in the locker room (which he'd described to her numerous times since then). After going for a run in the woods later that evening, taking extra care not to let her path bring her too deep into the preserve or anywhere near the Hale house, Mal was thoroughly exhausted. Nevertheless, restful sleep continued to elude her, and she knew exactly why.

It wasn't in her nature to keep secrets from her best friends, but Mal still hadn't breathed a word to Stiles and Scott about her death vision of Derek Hale's older sister. Scott appeared to have forgotten her strange behavior and baffling physiological reaction to Laura's dead body back in the morgue, and Mal wasn't sure whether she should be relieved or upset about this. Half of her wanted it to stay forgotten, and the other half of her hoped Scott would involve Stiles, and together, they'd drag it out of her. One of Stiles's most practiced talents was annoying wanted information out of people.

But Mal was terrified of exposing herself as the freak she had started to believe she was. For the most part, she had recovered from the shock of watching Laura Hale die and was now puzzling over _how_ she'd been able to watch it and _why_ she'd seen anything at all. She'd touched claw marks and then impossibly, they had transported her…what? Back in time? That couldn't be it. After all, neither Laura nor her werewolf killer had taken any notice of Mal, and she'd been powerless to prevent the murder from happening in those moments. So, that ruled out human Time-Turner. Mal considered that maybe werewolves had an ability to project their death memories through their corpses, which was quite a morbid theory but not altogether inconceivable given that werewolves existed at all. For the time being, however, Mal was disinclined to make up her mind. All she knew was that Derek hadn't murdered his sister. Somebody else had.

Mal tossed and turned, obsessing over all of this and confused as to why she didn't need numerous counseling sessions with Ms. Morrell. Or maybe she did need them but was too numb or insane to think so. Those were entirely plausible explanations, not that Mal would ever seek out the high school's guidance counselor for help.

On top of that, Theo was still angry with Mal. It was the quiet sort of anger, though, the cold-shouldering-refuse-to-look-you-in-the-eye kind. He was much like his mother, in that regard. He'd even shut and locked his bedroom door, the ultimate sign that he wasn't interested in Mal's apologies, although this hadn't prevented her from trying.

At first, she thought she understood how her brother could be so mad. If she were in his place, and someone had royally screwed Stiles or Scott over, she'd be furious, albeit more outspokenly. But when she really started to think about Derek, Theo's fury began to make less and less sense to her. It felt like he was choosing someone he'd kept in next to no contact with during the past five years over his own sister.

Mal's heart thumped unpleasantly at the very thought. She couldn't lose the only good man left in her family.

* * *

Mal was so tired on Thursday, she fell asleep to Stiles' ramblings about the lacrosse game as he drove them to school. Nearly a week had passed, but it seemed to have become his favorite topic of conversation in that time. He was so caught up with what he was saying – "Mal, did you _see_ Jackson's face?! I'm pretty sure he shit his pants." – that he hardly noticed the mumbling coming from his sleeping best friend until they finally got to the high school, and she was still dozing.

"Y'know, this werewolf thing might not be so bad – " Stiles continued, cutting himself off when he looked over at Mal. Her head was resting against the back of her seat at an odd and almost certainly uncomfortable angle, one hand on her lap and the other hanging limply to the side. She was muttering incomprehensibly and squirming quite a bit.

Stiles grinned at her slumbering form, but all too suddenly, he was remembering what he'd been dreaming about last night. He abruptly averted his gaze, his cheeks flaming and the air in the car stifling him. He tried to distract himself from the unwanted thoughts buzzing around in his head, tried to will the blood out of his cheeks (along with the other, less excusable part of his body that blood had so quickly rushed into). It was difficult, but the memory of a clown accidentally lighting his wig on fire at Scott's twelfth birthday party eventually worked, and he sucked in a breath before turning to face Mal again.

"Hey, wake up," he spoke softly, hesitating to touch her and doing so only when she wouldn't budge. Louder and more like himself, he ordered, "Seriously, wake the hell up! We're meeting Scott out front. He said he has something to tell us."

Mal jolted awake and nearly banged her head against the car roof, relaxing when she realized it was just Stiles. "Jeez, there are more delicate ways to wake a person up, Stilinski," she complained as she cracked her neck, causing Stiles to cringe.

"Ugh, I hate it when you do that," he grumbled as they got out of the Jeep and speed-walked to meet their other friend.

Mal rolled her eyes and slapped Scott on the back in greeting, but he didn't seem happy at all.

"What's up with your face, man?" Stiles asked with furrowed eyebrows. He added with a snicker, "You look like Mal when she has to sit with us in the Jeep after practice."

"I had a really weird dream last night – at least, I _hope_ it was just a dream," Scott muttered in reply, the creases in his brow becoming more pronounced.

When Mal and Stiles gave him questioning looks, he attempted to describe it as best he could, that he and Allison were making out in the back of a bus at the high school when he shifted and possibly murdered her.

"So you killed her?" Stiles double-checked, opening the door for his friends.

"I don't know," Scott answered uncertainly. "I just woke up. I was sweating like crazy, and I couldn't breathe. I've never had a dream where I woke up like that before."

"Really? I have. Usually ends a little differently," Stiles blurted, allowing only a sidelong glance at Mal as the trio made their way through the halls.

She didn't notice, too busy snorting in amusement from Scott's other side. "Is Lydia at least nicer to you in your wet dreams?"

Scott was much less amused. "A. I meant I've never had a dream that felt that real, and B. Never give us that much detail about you in bed again."

Mal called him a "prude" under her breath, and when Scott raised his eyebrows at her in question, she teased, "You're one to talk. Making out with Allison would have ended _a lot_ differently if you hadn't shifted and potentially killed her. And anyway, a burgeoning sexuality at our age is perfectly normal. We're sixteen-year-olds. What do you expect?"

She winked at Stiles supportively, but he merely gaped at her. Thinking about Mal's "burgeoning sexuality" was a recipe for disaster. Why, of all people, did he have to dream about _her_ last night? It was supposed to be Emma Watson. Or Megan Fox. Or, for heaven's sake, Lydia Martin. Why couldn't it be Lydia for once? He would've loved to have needed a cold shower after a fantasy about Lydia. Anything over _this._ Of course, it meant nothing. It was an absurd dream, an inconvenient but inevitable result of being friends with a girl for over a decade, and it would probably – hopefully – never happen again. There. Easy. The end.

"But the thing is, you did shift," Mal continued, oblivious to Stiles's internal conflict. "And my guess is – "

" – No, I know. You guys think it has something to do with me going out with Allison tomorrow, like I'm gonna lose control and rip her throat out," Scott finished for her.

"No, of course not," Stiles interjected, concentrating again on the matter at hand. But Scott was unconvinced. "Yeah, that's totally it. Hey, come on, it's gonna be fine, all right? Personally, I think you're handling this pretty freakin' amazingly. You know, it's not like there's a lycanthropy for beginners class you can take."

"Yeah, not a class, but maybe a teacher," Scott suggested.

"Who, Derek?" Stiles nearly screeched, slapping Scott upside the head. "You forgetting the part where we got him tossed in jail?"

"After what we did to him, he's gotta be on the warpath," Mal agreed. _Now, do it now. Say it. They need to know,_ she thought, psyching herself up to tell Scott and Stiles about what had been occupying her headspace for a few days now.

"Yeah, I know, but chasing her, dragging her to the back of the bus, it felt so real," Scott said almost sadly. It was like the mere concept of hurting Allison was unbearable for him. So Mal kept her mouth shut, telling herself now wasn't the right time.

"How real?" Stiles asked doubtfully.

"Like it actually happened."

And it seemed that it had.

Opening the back doors to the school, the three teenagers were met with the sight of the bus Scott had dreamed about, alarmingly bloodied and cordoned off by the police.

This time peeking at Scott, who had a horrified expression on his face, Stiles said, "I think it did."

Mal barely heard him. Her stare was affixed to the bloodstains.

* * *

Allison was nowhere to be found. At least not for the two minutes Scott, Stiles, and Mal frantically tried to look for her in the hallway before they got separated from each other. "Dammit," Mal cursed, standing on the tips of her toes to scan the crowd for long, curly, brown hair. When she didn't find the brunette, she strode through the hallway, circling around every now and then until –

"Hey, Mal, that's a really pretty dress. Oh! Are those _pockets_?" came the loveliest voice Mal could have heard that morning.

She spun on her heels, bringing herself face to face with Allison, who bore a wide grin and was holding a cup of coffee, which Mal assumed had come from Lydia. Disregarding the scalding hot beverage, she pulled Allison into an enthusiastic hug, and only by some miracle did none of the coffee spill.

"Thank God," Mal mumbled, as she drew away. She scanned Allison for damage, satisfied when she appeared intact and as lovely as always. "Scott's looking for you."

"I know," Allison laughed, the sound like wind chimes. Gesturing with her head toward somewhere down the hallway, she said cheerfully, "I bumped into him a few minutes ago. If you guys are this happy to see _me _at seven-fifteen in the morning, I can only imagine what it's like to see each other. Or is the warm reception just part of the 'Welcome the New Girl' phase?"

Mal shrugged in mock disinterest. "I guess the novelty of your company just hasn't worn off, yet," she quipped.

Allison's grin faded when she examined Mal properly. "Are you all right? You seem really tired. Want some of my coffee?"

Mal waved her off, but at Allison's dubious expression, confessed, "I didn't really sleep all that well last night."

"Why not?" Allison inquired kindly, in the attentive but casual manner that meant Mal didn't actually have to answer the question if she didn't want to.

But that's precisely why Mal replied, "I'm…still kind of fighting with my brother…" Allison waited for her to continue, sensing that Mal needed to vent to someone. "I mean, we're not actually fighting. I did something I shouldn't have, and it was impulsive and careless, so now he isn't talking to me. The problem is, he won't let me apologize, and he's leaving for New York again on Sunday."

Allison's eyebrows knit together thoughtfully, and she was quiet for a moment. "You remember when I told you that my dad has a gun collection?"

Taken aback at the bizarre change in subject, Mal nodded slowly.

"Well, my family also owns a couple of bows." Off the top of her head, Allison listed, "You know, compound, longbow, recurve?"

Mal hadn't heard of any of these terms, so she shook her head. "You'll have to explain to me what each of those are – Which one did Legolas use?"

"A much prettier version of a recurve bow," Allison chuckled, taking a sip of her coffee. "The more modern one's the compound. It uses a system of cables and pulleys to bend what are called the limbs, which store all the bow's energy and give the arrows their strength. The compound bow's the one I used to shoot with."

Mal's eyebrows flew practically to her hairline, and her mouth fell open. "You can shoot a bow and arrow? That is…seriously _badass_. Do you win competitions?" she asked eagerly.

"Oh, I don't do it anymore," Allison clarified, blushing lightly. "I was nationally ranked, and my dad wanted me to pursue it, but I stopped liking it after a while. Anyway, when I was twelve, I sort of – oh God, I can't believe I'm actually telling you this – I somehow shot my aunt Kate in the foot. I had excellent accuracy, so that wasn't the issue, but I think she was trying to distract me, so I'd learn _not _to get distracted. All I know is, one second I'm laughing at a joke she's telling me, and the next, she's cursing," Allison recounted, and with a snigger, "Extremely colorfully, I might add."

Mal eyed her with a mixture of awe and alarm. She was still wondering why the conversation had taken this turn but was nevertheless enjoying the entertaining anecdote. And evidently, there was a lot more to the new girl than charm and beauty; with further training, she would be a phenomenal assassin. Being Allison probably meant that she had never even considered this, at least as far as Mal could tell – the girl was still, at the minimum, 75% sunshine and rainbows – but maybe her father had. Of course, Mal hated the idea, so she tossed it out of her head before it could take root.

"Yikes, and that happened when she was making you laugh. Remind me never to get on your bad side, Katniss."

Allison shoved Mal good-humoredly with her free hand. "Right, well, my dad yelled at me for an hour about how I had to pay attention, to constantly be vigilant, or at least at my age, cognizant of what I was doing. And I assumed he was really upset with me 'cause it was his little sister's foot I'd just sent a sharp arrow through. But he always knew Kate could handle pain – she has a pretty high tolerance for it. Really, he was just disappointed because after years of shooting a bow, I could still make such a foolish mistake, I could still mess up without expecting consequences."

Mal nodded in understanding, appreciating at last why Allison had brought the story up.

"He forgave me, though, because it's pointless for families to hold grudges against each other. When you move around as often as I have, you realize that family is the only constant, and you need each other too much to let anything compromise your relationship," Allison stated earnestly, pausing to give Mal a small smile. "You're his sister, so he _can't_ stay mad at you, even if what you did was dumber than shooting your aunt in the foot."

Carefully choosing her words, Mal revealed to Allison, "Yeah, but _my _family – we aren't…the most forgiving people." She bitterly thought of the man who was only her father in that half her genes came from him.

Allison picked up on the sour undercurrent in Mal's statement but tactfully withheld from commenting on it. "Neither is mine – But hey, I'm sure even Win and Will Butler fight sometimes."

The heaviness of their conversation melted away as Mal burst out laughing. It was a liberating sensation after the less than pleasant week she'd had, and fairly uplifted, she spent the next ten minutes discussing with Allison the differences between Arcade Fire's studio albums and which songs were their absolute favorites.

* * *

Halfway through first period Chemistry, Scott turned around to whisper to Stiles while Mal listened in from her seat beside him, her eyes glued to her paper so Mr. Harris wouldn't think she was slacking off. (He'd already scolded her and Allison for "swaggering into class seven minutes late", and she didn't want to further provoke the beast.)

"Maybe it was my blood on the door," Scott speculated optimistically.

"Could have been animal blood. You know, maybe you caught a rabbit or something," Stiles mused.

"And did what?"

"Ate it."

"Raw?"

"No, you stopped to bake it in a little werewolf oven," Stiles replied sarcastically, and Mal snorted. "I don't know, you're the one who can't remember anything."

"Mr. Stilinski," Mr. Harris called forebodingly from the front of the classroom, "if that's your idea of a hushed whisper, you might want to pull the headphones out every once in a while. And Miss Durant, did disrupting my class earlier not suffice? Perhaps you and your _boyfriend_ would like a detention after school? More precious time to spend together," he snidely proposed.

Mal flushed an angry red and muttered an insincere apology, while Mr. Harris's cruel smirk broadened.

"I think you two and Mr. McCall would benefit from a little distance, yes?"

Stiles whimpered out a "no"; Scott huffed in his seat; and Mal clenched her jaw, gathering her things resentfully.

"Let me know if the separation anxiety gets to be too much," Harris mocked them.

Stiles moved to the back of the room, and Mal set herself down by Harley, who shook her head in disappointment.

"You shouldn't let yourself get so sidetracked by them. That's probably why you barely passed World History last year," Harley criticized before shifting her focus elsewhere. Mal would've defended herself, but then Harley shot out of her seat and cried, "Hey, I think they found something!"

The entire class hurried to the window, from where they could see a man on a gurney being rolled toward an ambulance.

"That's not a rabbit," Scott murmured to his best friends.

Mal watched the man, who abruptly sat up and screamed, giving everyone in the class apart from her a good scare. She heard her friends speaking in hushed tones behind her, but she simply couldn't stop staring out of the window.

* * *

"Did you see the bus out back?" Harley asked without so much as a 'Hello', propping herself up against the locker by Mal's right before lunch. She seemed calm enough, resting her sneakered foot on the wall with her arms loosely crossed, but there was a peculiar hardness to her countenance.

Mal nodded anxiously, pulling out her lunch and psych textbook and avoiding eye contact with Harley.

"Well? What happened to that guy? Did someone try to kill him? Is he dying? Do they have any leads on who tried to kill him? Or was it an animal?"

"How – how would I know?" Mal countered, disoriented by the onslaught of questions and paranoid that Harley somehow _knew _about Scott. Why else would she sound so disgruntled?

Harley blinked. "Um, because you're best buds with the Sheriff's kid."

Mal's muscles loosened a fraction. "Oh. Right. Well, I haven't spoken to the Sheriff yet, so…"

"Damn, so you really don't know anything?" Harley asked. Rather nosily, according to Mal. It didn't help that she'd sided with Mr. Harris.

"No, Harley, I don't know anything. Quit interrogating me," Mal snapped, slamming her locker door and heading in the direction of the cafeteria.

Harley jogged to keep up, the severity in her expression gone. "Okay, sheesh. I was just wondering. I saw Scott and Stiles talking, so I figured you guys knew what went down."

"And what? Decided to hide it from everyone because we just _love _lording our knowledge of crime scenes over all of you laymen?" Harley shrank back guiltily, and Mal sighed. "Sorry, I didn't get much sleep last night, and this bloodied bus thing is setting my nerves on edge. I shouldn't be taking it out on you, though."

Harley slung a friendly arm around her shoulder. " 'S okay, I understand. Want me to buy you an ice cream cone?" she offered considerately.

"Thanks, but I'm good. I'll see you later, yeah?"

"For sure," Harley called back to her, already in line for a cafeteria hamburger.

Mal began making her way toward the table she, Stiles, and Scott usually sat at when they had the same lunch wave but stopped short at the sight of four additional people: Danny, Lydia, Allison, and one of Stiles's fellow benchwarmers. Mal shook her head in disbelief; no one ever voluntarily sat with them. This was 100% Allison's doing.

Mal grit her teeth in preparation for what would undoubtedly be a difficult lunch and stiffly waved at Stiles, who looked distressed and impatiently beckoned her over, even kicking out the chair next to him for her to sit.

"Which alternate universe is this?" Mal muttered to him, throwing her backpack down grumpily and plopping herself down in her chair.

From across the table, Allison cautiously greeted Mal, who was now aggressively emptying the contents of her homemade lunch out onto the table because Jackson had just arrived and was shooing the benchwarmer away.

"Hell if I know, but Allison's obviously a wizard in it," Stiles whispered back in a bit of a daze, glancing at each of the table's occupants but lingering on Lydia for a few seconds longer than necessary.

Mal noticed this and too busy smirking wickedly, barely registered the tiny lurch her stomach gave. "I hope your sexual fantasies about her start off more creatively than lunch in the cafeteria. I wanna make sure you're taking full advantage of your REM sleep," she teased in a whisper, elbowing Stiles in the ribs.

He scowled at her.

"So I hear they're saying it's some type of animal attack," Danny notified the group. "Probably a cougar."

"I heard mountain lion," Jackson corrected, perched on his chair as if he were a king. Mal glowered at him, and Stiles had to bump her knee under the table to prevent her from crushing her sandwich in anger.

"They're the same thing," she butt in condescendingly, right as Lydia said in exactly the same tone, "A cougar is a mountain lion."

Mal was both stunned and deeply disturbed by how similar they sounded, but if she was being completely honest with herself, also a little impressed.

But then, as if she'd said something wrong, Lydia added, "Isn't it?", and Mal rolled her eyes.

Perhaps Stiles had been right about Lydia. It didn't seem like she wanted people to know she was intelligent, and right now, she was pretending to be stupid for her boyfriend's benefit. But while that might have meant she was smarter than Mal had given her credit for, it also meant she was perfectly content with dumbing herself down for a boy. Mal found that somehow worse.

"Who cares?" Jackson responded testily. "The guy's probably some homeless tweaker who's gonna die anyway."

"Oh sorry, Whittemore," Mal hissed as she put her sandwich down, murder in her eyes. Annoyed, Jackson slowly slid his gaze over to her. "No one meant to bother you with actual, real-life problems. If what you're so cranky about is that nobody's paid you any attention all morning, I'm sure your girlfriend has a mirror you can stare lovingly at yourself in."

Danny shook with silent laughter, eliciting an eye roll from Jackson.

"At least there's something for him to stare lovingly at," Lydia sneered, hurriedly coming to her boyfriend's defense, while Jackson smirked, completely unaffected by Mal's insult.

Admittedly, Lydia's comment stung, especially when Stiles said nothing to the contrary. Which made little sense, given that Mal hadn't really expected him to in front of the popular girl. But for Stiles's sake, Mal refrained from reacting to her.

"Don't mind them," Allison asserted audibly, giving Jackson and Lydia a cold but ineffective glare. "Not that you need validation from anyone, but you are beautiful…and that's a statement of fact."

Affection squeezed at Mal's heart, and she would have hugged Allison had they been sitting beside each other. Instead, she smiled at the brunette fondly. Their talk that morning had demonstrated that Allison was both a kind and formidable girl, and she was clearly the type of person to stand up for her friends, even if that meant standing up _against_ some of them. Mal wondered how she could ever have thought otherwise.

"Actually," Stiles chimed in, drawing everyone's attention to him, "I just found out who it is. Check it out."

He held out his phone, showing the group a video of the Sheriff surveying the back of the bus and then a picture of the man who had been injured. "_The Sheriff's department won't speculate on details of the incident but confirmed the victim, Garrison Meyers, did survive the attack. Meyers was taken to a local hospital where he remains in critical condition,_" the commentator disclosed.

"I know this guy," Scott announced.

"You do?" Allison asked.

Scott, Mal, and Stiles shared the same expression of alarm. "Yeah, when I used to take the bus back when I lived with my dad. He was the driver."

"Can we talk about something slightly more fun, please?" Lydia interrupted, waving her fork around out of boredom. "Like – oh! – Where are we going tomorrow night? You said you and Scott were hanging out tomorrow night, right?"

"Um, we were thinking of what we were gonna do," Allison said uncomfortably. It didn't escape Mal's observation that this wasn't something the new girl wanted to discuss with Lydia. She was just being polite, as usual.

"Well, I am not sitting home again watching lacrosse videos, so if the four of us are hanging out, we are doing something fun," Lydia insisted.

Scott's eyes grew large. He turned to Mal and Stiles for help, but neither of them had any idea how to get him out of this nightmare. Mal awkwardly took bites of her sandwich, and Stiles covered his mouth with his hand in sympathy for their friend.

"Hanging out? Like, the four of us? Do you wanna hang out, like us and them?" Scott verified with Allison nervously.

"Yeah, I guess. Sounds fun," she answered gamely. She directed her focus to Mal and Stiles and with a hint of desperation, added, "You two should come, too."

Lydia made a noise of protest, and Stiles piped up before Mal had the chance to even formulate an excuse.

"What, like a group date? Because Mal and I aren't dating," he replied, shaking his head almost violently and then peeking down the table at Lydia. "No, no, no, no, no. _God_, no. Ack, we'd never – That's not even like a – That's just wrong – I wouldn't – "

" – Stiles, I only meant we could all hang out as a group," Allison cut him off sharply, looking rather cross.

"Well, I can't speak for Stiles," Mal said stonily, her red cheeks betraying her embarrassment, "But I have plans tomorrow. Thanks for the invite, though."

"Yeah, I've got a – a thing," Stiles explained feebly, unable to look at Mal.

The rest of the group carried on making plans, something about bowling and Jackson stabbing himself in the face with a fork, but Mal remained silent, staring fixedly at the half-eaten sandwich that was suddenly as unappealing as "hanging out" with Lydia and Jackson.

Mal wasn't an idiot; she knew why Stiles had jumped into the conversation so quickly. If there were any chance of Lydia liking him back, he couldn't afford for her to think he was with someone else. But apparently, the mere idea of being with Mal revolted him, and he was willing to go to foolish lengths to embarrass both her and himself in order to make that perfectly clear. They didn't look at each other as more than friends, never had – not that Mal actually understood what it was supposed to feel like, looking at someone the way Scott did with Allison – but she knew that no one ever wanted to be thought of with revulsion. And this very much included her.

Mal started chewing her lip again for something to do, packing up her belongings well before the bell rang for fifth period. When it did, she nearly tripped over the leg of her chair in a frenzied attempt to get away from the disaster that was lunch with the popular kids, a frustrating heaviness weighing down her chest. The kind that couldn't possibly be ignored.

* * *

Last period Gym found Mal, Scott, and Stiles assigned to separate teams for dodge ball, and for the first time since she'd known him, Mal was grateful for the excuse not to talk to Stiles. For thirty minutes, he tried to capture her attention with his usual antics, but when she evidently wasn't going to humor him, he frowned and gave up.

_Waiting for you by your locker_, he texted her after school.

_You can leave without me. Theo's giving me a ride_, she lied in answer. Her plan was to walk home, and the unusually warm weather was a blessing.

_Oh okay_. And then almost immediately, _Do you think I'm attractive to gay guys?_

Mal raised her eyebrows and cracked a small smile despite herself but didn't reply, instead walking through the school's front doors and into the wonderful sunshine.

"Hey, Mal. What are you still doing here, kiddo?" Sheriff Stilinski called to her from the sidewalk. He was holding an envelope in one hand and a dog leash in the other, a police dog trailing behind him with a bandage wrapped around one of his legs.

Arlo barked happily, and Mal jogged over, bending down to scratch him behind the ears while he panted excitedly. "Hey, bud! How ya been?" she asked, and he licked her nose, making her laugh. She'd known Arlo ever since he was a puppy.

"It's nice out, so I figured I'd walk," she said to the Sheriff, who shrewdly narrowed his eyes.

"I know for a fact Stiles wouldn't leave you here without a ride," he declared confidently, waiting for her to tell him the truth.

She shrugged, her blush growing brighter. Did he have to be so astute all the time? "Having a rough day," she explained, and that was as honest as she was going to allow herself to be with anyone for a while.

Stiles's dad seemed to find it an adequate reason, however, and he nodded in agreement. "Yeah, I get what you mean, Mal. After last Saturday, I was hoping this week would pass without incident, but nope. I've already got another animal attack on my hands."

"I don't suppose you're allowed to clue me in on what you know about it?" she inquired, motioning toward the "Evidence Envelope". Anything he was willing to tell her she could pass on to Scott. Someone else had killed Laura Hale, so maybe that werewolf – and not Scott – was the one who'd gone after Garrison Meyers. Mal could hope, anyway.

The Sheriff gave her a hard look but sighed. "Truthfully, I don't know much myself. The lab in Sacramento hasn't yet determined the animal that attacked Garrison. But Arlo needs to get his stitches out, so I was just about to head to the animal clinic and ask Dr. Deaton if he had any ideas."

"Isn't it a wolf?" Mal questioned, thinking it should've been obvious to the Sheriff. "You said after the game that there were wolf hairs on Laura Hale's body. Maybe it's a wolf that's going around attacking people."

"Maybe. I've definitely considered it," the Sheriff admitted. Playing the devil's advocate, he pointed out, "But it's also just as likely that these two cases are completely unrelated. And unless there are more attacks identical to Laura's, I can't make any assumptions. Garrison Meyers might've been attacked by a mountain lion, for all I know."

"He's going to be okay, right?" Mal asked concernedly.

"He's in the ICU, and Melissa's one of the nurses taking care of him. His best chance is with her," the Sheriff assured her, the admiration for Mrs. McCall plain in his voice. "Anyway, I should get going. Sure you don't want me to drive you home?"

"I appreciate the offer, Sheriff, but I don't want to waste the warmth," she politely declined, while Arlo gently nuzzled her hand. Right as the Sheriff opened his mouth again, she promised, "I'll stay safe, don't worry. There will be no trekking through the woods today."

"No funny business?" the Sheriff checked for safe measure. Stiles wasn't around, so that mostly meant Mal wouldn't get into trouble, but he had to be sure.

"No funny business," she repeated cooperatively, and as the Sheriff let Arlo into the passenger seat of the cruiser, she remembered something else she'd been meaning to ask. "By the way, how's the healthy diet going?"

"I love that boy, but I can truly feel kidney stones developing from all the spinach he's been shoving down my throat," the Sheriff groaned before his face lit up in the scheming sort of way Stiles's frequently did. "I don't suppose you could drop by the station tomorrow with some of your mom's lasagna? It's got vegetables in it, so strictly speaking, it isn't _bad _for me."

"I think my mom's cooking spoils you," she teased, already resolved to bring him a couple of pieces the next day.

* * *

After Mal dropped the lasagna off at the police station the following night – "You and Elaine are a godsend, truly." – her phone buzzed with a call from Scott, who'd informed her of his meeting with Derek at the Hale house the evening prior. Apparently, Derek wasn't sure whether Scott had been the one who attacked Garrison Meyers but had advised him to "let his senses remember that night for him", whatever that entailed. At school that morning, he'd asked that Mal and Stiles await his phone call, so that they could all check out the bus depot together.

Mal had spent the day studiously avoiding Stiles, going so far as to eat lunch in an empty classroom. It wasn't like her to hide from him in this way, and she was painfully aware that it was a disproportionate response to his minor freak-out, but she didn't think she could look him in the eye, much less joke around with him as if how he'd acted yesterday hadn't affected her at all. And though Stiles was dense with respect to many things, he wasn't dense about Mal. He attempted to get ahold of her several times, but she'd either ignore him or slip away when he almost did. So, when Mal had to see him again that night, he was honestly kind of pissed off.

The drive to Scott's house was awkward, to say the least. Thankfully, he didn't notice, and the Jeep took the trio to the bus depot within ten minutes.

"Hey, no, just me. You two need to keep watch," Scott protested when Stiles leaped out of the car and Mal followed after them.

"How come I'm always the guy keeping watch?" Stiles objected, gripping the chain link fence and beginning to climb it, while Mal observed from a few steps behind. "Can't Mal do it this time?"

Scott pulled him down. "Because your human scent might mess with my wolf senses."

"Okay, why's it starting to feel like you're Batman and I'm Robin?" Stiles carped. "I don't want to be Robin all the time."

Scott narrowed his eyes in exasperation. "Nobody's Batman and Robin any of the time."

"Not even some of the time?"

"Just stay here!"

"Oh, my God! Fine," Stiles surrendered, stomping back to the Jeep while Scott adeptly hopped the fence. Mal hesitated to join Stiles, doing so only when he snippily called out of his window, "Are you just gonna stand there and stare dumbly in his direction until he comes back?"

She huffed, slamming the passenger side door purely because she knew it would make Stiles mad and then crossing her arms over her chest rigidly.

"What the hell is your problem, Mal?!" Stiles cried angrily. "You've been dodging me all day, can't even freaking look at me, and now you're wailing on Roscoe. What's the matter with you?"

Mal released an annoyed and unsteady breath, unsure of what to say given that she was still unsure why she felt this…_wounded_. "Nothing," she lied, literally through her teeth.

"Fine, two can play at this game. I don't wanna talk to you, anyway," Stiles retorted, knuckles turning white from his death grip on the steering wheel.

He remained tight-lipped for all of thirty seconds.

"This is such bullshit, Mal. You haven't said more than five words to me, which has to be a world record. You bolted out of the cafeteria yesterday, didn't want me to give you a ride home – don't lie to me again, my dad said you walked – and I'm pretty sure you ate lunch in the bathroom today. So, now I wanna know what you're so bent out of shape about," he demanded, exhaling shakily and moving around in his seat to face Mal.

"I didn't eat my lunch in the bathroom, that's disgusting," she muttered.

Stiles hissed forcefully, and the sound triggered an almost hysterical laughter from Mal. She howled with it and couldn't calm down for a solid minute, all while Stiles gawked at her, cracking her up even more. When she eventually caught her breath, her stomach ached delightfully.

"Are you done?" Stiles asked, a reluctant happiness in his voice.

Mal wiped the tears out of her eyes. "Yeah, I think so."

"Gonna tell me what I did to make you so angry?" he inquired hopefully.

Mal swallowed uneasily, twisting in her seat to look at him and leaning her head against the headrest. She was silent for a short time, searching for the appropriate words but also building up the courage to say them.

"Stiles, I know you want to be with Lydia more than, like, anything in the world. But it…worries me that you're so concerned with earning her approval that you're prepared to tear me down for it. I mean, of course I get that you don't want her to think we're together, but I'm one of your best friends. I have to be sure that you respect me enough to – I mean, I know you respect me, but what you said at lunch yesterday was…it just…" she trailed off, unable to form a coherent sentence. It felt like she'd missed something really important, like someone had driven by a sign on the highway too fast for her to read it, but she didn't know what that meant, so she didn't speak up again.

Unsure of what to say, Stiles blinked. Several times. And then he smiled gently, intending to pull her in for a hug. But Mal once again trained her stare out of the windshield, so the moment passed.

Before she could mentally berate herself for being so pathetic, however, she spotted the gleam of a flashlight, growing larger as it approached the bus. No one was supposed to be at the school this late at night, and part of the security guard's job was to report anyone who didn't abide by that rule. Scott would be in a shitload of trouble if he didn't get out of there now.

"Stiles, honk the horn!" Mal instructed him.

Bewildered, Stiles fumbled about until Mal yelled the command a second time, and then he repeatedly pressed down on the horn, murmuring, "Come on, come on", in agitation. Mal crawled into the back to prepare for Scott's entrance, jiggling her leg restlessly and peering at the werewolf through the darkness. He sprinted toward the Jeep, running on top of someone else's car and somersaulting over the fence along the way. Propelling himself into the passenger's side, Scott ordered Stiles to go, and he swiftly backed the Jeep out of the bus depot.

"Did it work? Did you remember?" Stiles shouted over the squealing of tires.

"Yeah, I was there last night," Scott panted. "And the blood – a lot of it was mine."

"So you did attack him?"

"No, please tell me it wasn't you," Mal pleaded.

"Yeah, don't worry, Mal," Scott reassured her, "I saw glowing eyes in the bus, but they weren't mine. It was Derek."

"Wait, that can't be right," Mal argued a little too confidently.

"What d'you mean, 'That can't be right'?" Stiles asked incredulously. "Of course that's right. Derek Hale is a psychotic werewolf, and he's clawing people and – half – wolf – creatures – _apart_. I thought we'd already established that?"

"He didn't touch his sister," Mal insisted, recalling the hazy profile of the werewolf she'd seen in her post-mortem Laura Hale vision, a profile that most definitely didn't belong to Derek.

"What are you talking about? Last I checked, you wanted his ass thrown in jail!" Stiles whirled around to squawk at her, causing the Jeep to swerve. "Shit!"

"I was wrong," she admitted to them. "We all were. He didn't lay a hand on either of them – or a claw, whatever. Scott, think this through properly. It could've been someone else. You and Derek can't be the only werewolves around if the Argents are here, right?" she reasoned, voicing a hunch she'd had ever since she'd met Chris.

"I…guess," Scott acknowledged skeptically.

"Mal, you're being totally ridiculous!" Stiles accused, glaring at her through the rearview mirror. "Scott, what – what about the driver?"

"I think I was actually trying to protect him," Scott said.

"Wait, what? Why would Derek help you remember that he attacked the driver?" Stiles asked bemusedly.

"Ahh, that's what I don't get!"

"It's because he _didn't_ attack the driver!" Mal exclaimed. "Another werewolf is responsible for that."

"It's gotta be a pack thing," Stiles rationalized, ignoring Mal.

"What do you mean?"

"Like an initiation," he elaborated. "You do the kill together."

"No. Guys, listen to – " Mal requested urgently but in vain.

"Because ripping someone's throat out is a real bonding experience?" Scott asked dubiously.

"Yeah, but you didn't do it, which means you're not a killer," Stiles pointed out happily. "And it also means that – "

" – I can go out with Allison."

"I was gonna say it means you won't kill me and Mal."

"Oh, yeah. That, too."

Infuriated, Mal yelled, "DAMMIT, YOU TWO! LISTEN TO ME RIGHT NOW!"

"Christ, all right," Stiles murmured, while Scott twisted around in his seat, regarding Mal warily.

But now that she had their attention, she couldn't figure out how to satisfactorily explain her secret. She'd been so concerned with telling them that she hadn't even considered how she was supposed to do so. It was all at the back of her throat, but she was choking on it.

"Well? We're listening. What is it?" Stiles asked irritably. Spying her now ashen complexion in the mirror, he worriedly remarked, "Whoa, Mal, you look like you're about to pass out."

And then slowly, Scott's eyes widened in realization. He lifted his head up, inspecting every inch of Mal's face, and she offered him a guilty look in return.

"Mal, back in the morgue – something happened when you blacked out, didn't it?"

* * *

**A/N: She lives! And by she, I mean me, because I am a giant dork. Yeah dudes, I'm really sorry about the long-ass wait, but college. You know? Anyway, I hope you liked the chapter! It took me a lot less time to write/edit than it usually does, but that's probably because I've become much less nitpicky about certain things. Not sure if that's good or bad, I'll leave that up to you.**

**Ah, so I tried my hand just the slightest at Stiles's point of view, not everywhere obviously, just in regards to the wet dream he had about Mal (which I shall perhaps reveal the contents of at a later date, hehehe.) This story is in third person, but I'm experimenting with a sort of "character POV through third person" thing if that makes any sense. And ugh, I wanted to write more Danny, but at this point, Mal still doesn't really know him. I promise there's that to look forward too, though! Also, I sort of like that Mal and Allison's friendship is evolving around themselves and their similarities and not around Scott, because I want their friendship to be able to stand on its own. I'm excited to see where that goes, as well. Let me know what you wonderful people think about literally anything in the story, seriously. I will love and appreciate any and all comments and constructive criticisms!**

**Shoutout to moon saturn, Monkey gone to heaven, mymi092, lolsmileyface6, CupCakes24, TheDysfunctional, QueenOfTheHobbits, Ayine, and sugabee14 for reviewing! (And of course everyone else, these are just the people who've reviewed since I last updated.) Your comments mean the world to me, and I hope I keep hearing from you!**

**Until next time, my lovelies.**


End file.
